


130 Prompts #79 - Think Positive

by FountainPenguin



Series: Blue Train [7]
Category: Fairly OddParents
Genre: Anti-Cosmo needs new friends, Bat people, Clubbing, Foreshadowing, Gen, Genderbent gold and white bird people, Grief/Mourning, Magical Pregnancy, Magical beings drunk on candy and soda, Party, Tfw your designated poofer gets completely sloshed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2019-07-01 16:44:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15778053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FountainPenguin/pseuds/FountainPenguin
Summary: Takes place the week before the episode "Anti-Poof". When H.P., Anti-Sanderson, and Jorgen von Strangle get wind of how stressed Anti-Cosmo has become over Anti-Wanda not showing the expected signs of pregnancy, they abduct him for a night of candy, soda, and fun despite his flustered protests.





	130 Prompts #79 - Think Positive

**Author's Note:**

> The Anti-Fairy mind-meld is a reference to the episode "Scary Godcouple."

**79\. Think Positive** (One week prior "Anti-Poof")

_Year of Breath; Spring of the Frozen Planet_

* * *

Wooden unicorns and sailing ships. Alphabet blocks so dusty that he could hardly make out the letters even when he rubbed them with several spidery threads of his white shawl. Floor puzzles with just enough pieces to encourage a couple of foolish children to give them another run, only for the day to end in slapping and shouted accusations when too many turned up missing. Anti-Cosmo shut the toy chest without removing anything and leaned his chin on top of it.

"You  _idiot_. You bloody imbecile. To think you actually thought someone was going to get some use out of these old things again. Ohhh, no… Not your son, Julius. This is just what you deserve."

Shutting his eyes gave him emotional vertigo. But keeping them open wasn't much better, with the image of a tiny, limp, blue…  _thing_  burned into the back of his brain.

"Anti-Kanin did it right," he mumbled into his crossed arms. "And Anti-Kyler made it look  _sooo_  easy. And in front of the entire camarilla, you just go and do  _that_ , oh Julius, old boy… What's happened to you? Is this what it's like, getting old?"

He pitied himself for another several minutes, then shook his head and rose to his feet. His claws scratched against stone. The shawl kept his wings folded against his back. Anti-Cosmo tightened his grip on its leaf-shaped clasp with one hand as he crossed the nursery to the black crib. It stood alone as he did, comprised of friendly rubber bars and butterfly netting. A curious parallel of him, blue-furred in soft pajama bottoms and lacy shawl. Nicks and dents marred the sides of its coffin-shaped lower half.

It wasn't the same crib Anti-Cosmo had used himself as a child. That one had been wheeled across the drawbridge and offered to some desperate widow millennia ago. A few members of the camarilla had borne pups of their own (all the ones Anti-Cosmo had hoped would never procreate, no less), and they had been eager to scour the storerooms for a couple of days in search of their own unused equipment if it meant weaseling out of actual work…

… Anti-Wanda had refused them. She and her Daddy had built this crib themselves a mere two nights after they'd learned of Poof's existence. Now, Anti-Cosmo wrapped his claws over its railing and leaned so far over, he could see each muscle and tuft of fur and the old scars that even regeneration had never healed on his bare chest. His monocle slipped out of place and bounced on its cord. It hit the bars with a dull  _thwack, thwack._

"I'd thought perhaps your p _rrr_ ivate name could be Tiberius, after your grandfather. Well, really I wanted 'Foop', for it's a fine name of Genie origin and I do enjoy the company of genies, though with your counterpart tottering about by the name of Poof, I feel both vindicated and silly for it now… Well. At least our naming traditions are the one thing the Fairies can't tear away from us. Oh, yes. As long as we have that, we'll be all right, you know what I mean? Isn't that just  _so_  believable?"

Cold, empty silence echoed back from the crib. Anti-Cosmo laughed, once- a harsh, bitter, sarcastic laugh, and shoved himself away.

"Not that it means anything to you. Well. Good night, dear boy. This, all of it, was worth a try. You have to live once."

The two candles, one with a pink flame and one green, still burned on the dusty changing table beside the crib. Anti-Cosmo gripped the shawl with crossed arms and leaned down to blow them out together.

Immediately after their light disappeared, there was a knock at the Castle's front door.

Even up the stairs and several rooms down the hall, Anti-Cosmo picked up on the sound. Difficult not to- it thunked.  _Was_  that a knock politely requesting entry, or was that a battering ram declaring war?

Very slowly, he leaned one palm against the changing table. Even more slowly, he turned and stared across the nursery to the one circular window high on the wall. A slice of moonlight beamed through the hole, half-swallowed by a passing cloud. After a brief moment had passed, the knock came again. This time it was a much softer knock, oddly enough, as though the fist making it had in the space of ten seconds gone down a dozen glove sizes.

"Who the devil… At half past midnight?"

He continued to linger by the table, increasingly reluctant to leave the silent nursery as he imagined in painstaking detail all the pestering anti-fairies who might have wanted to storm the drawbridge to fling insults at him and every reason why he deserved it. In recent times especially. His tongue slipped from between his fangs; he pulled a face. But, he did release the table and start for the nursery door. As he drew his wand from its sheath, Anti-Cosmo wrestled with the decision of whether to  _poof_  to the castle entrance directly, or simply take the long way. On the one hand, any news that brought some poor sap scratching at the door like a cù sith in the rain was bound to be urgent.

On the other, it was the middle of the _smokeforsaken night._

Making the short trip by foot would give him a bit of time to gather his temper under control. As he saw it? It was his castle. He would not be rushed against his will. Particularly not when he was in mourning. Thus satisfied, Anti-Cosmo walked back through the upper hallway and descended the right-hand staircase on his own sweet time, thank you very much.

A third knock on the enormous double doors. A low voice on the other side complained about the way they were made of glossy polished stone, and then realized why knocking on wood wasn't normally presented as an option in Anti-Fairy World and trailed off. Still running half a dozen snarky responses through his head, Anti-Cosmo took the heavy ring on the left in his hand and heaved the door inward.

And immediately screamed when Jorgen's enormous hand clapped over his mouth.

 _Thumb_ , he realized a second later as Jorgen lifted him into the air. He kicked his feet uselessly, squirming his crumpled wings. That was Jorgen's entire thumb pressing against his face. All things considered, he fit distressingly well in the enormous fairy's hand, like a grape. Oooh, curse those purebred von Strangle genes bulging beneath his muscled skin! Of all the bloodlines to retain so much of their size from the days of the Aos Sí long ago, wouldn't it be  _sooo_  funny for the whole clan of them to have such aggressive personalities to boot?

"Ha! Haha!" Jorgen opened his fist at eye level and turned his palm towards the sky. This left the shaken anti-fairy clinging to a pinky that came up to his knees. "I knew my brilliant plan to lure Anti-Cosmo out to the courtyard and into my clutches would not fail this time!"

A fuzzy green face popped over his shoulder, wagging a scolding claw. "'Ey, be fair. You had no clue it was him 'til you heard him squeal, ya big lug. Imagine if you woulda snatched Anti-Wanda up instead. Scare her an' the baby half ta Plane 23! Shame on you."

"Hap, don't be rude," drawled a third voice from somewhere near Jorgen's ankle. "You know the man isn't Daoist."

Rolling his eyes at the scolding, Anti-Sanderson stuck his treasured party blower in his mouth and blew it with a honk. H.P. adjusted his glasses and blinked up at him, unamused.

Anti-Cosmo pressed a hand to the prickling fluff on his chest, but otherwise did not make any sudden movements. Two of these faces he hadn't seen since those dratted Fairy World Games. The other for… Well, he couldn't be sure exactly how long it had been since the last Council meeting. Never mind that now- Either way, the Fairy World Games had been a month ago, and he hadn't so much as stepped toe across the border since. No evil schemes. No spies. Not so much as a single prank call either.

No. Anti-Cosmo ran through his mental list of recent wrongdoings once more, but confirmed his thoughts again. He'd done nothing wrong- nothing, at least, that should warrant Jorgen's attention at such an odd hour or lead him to end the night in jail. A grinning Jorgen made for an indefinite signal at best. But Jorgen AND Anti-Sanderson in the same general area without going for one another's throats… That was more of a curiosity than a reason to fret. And with H.P. leaning against Jorgen's knee with one casual hand and no irritating little tagalong in sight, Anti-Cosmo thought that was as good a reassurance of his safety as could expect to get.

He took two more beats to be sure of his senses, and then slowly replaced his dangling monocle against his eye. "J… Jorgen? Anti-Sanderson? And H.P.? What in blue blazes are the three of you doing on my front porch at this time in the morning?" He glanced at the anti-pixie clinging to Jorgen's ear. "While sober?"

Anti-Sanderson laughed. "Not for long, chief."

Jorgen took Anti-Cosmo by the scruff of his neck and swung him towards the convertible limousine parked haphazardly at the end of the drawbridge. Anti-Cosmo yelped and grabbed for Jorgen's chipped thumbnail, but it didn't stop the giant fairy from plopping him into the middle seat. "Don't fight me on this one, Anti-Cosmo. We pitched in and we are all taking you out to Serentip tonight."

Anti-Sanderson backflipped into the air. "We are gonna parrr-tay!  _Whoa!_  Can't fly! Going down!"

H.P. made no effort to catch him. Instead, he opened the limo's driver door and calmly buckled himself in.

"Serentip," Anti-Cosmo repeated, digging his claws into the leather of the seats. Tough, thick leather. "Party?"

Jorgen stopped. His head cocked to one side. For the first time, he seemed to take in the black nightcap, disheveled blue hair, and the fact that Anti-Cosmo was otherwise dressed only in the navy checkered bottoms of his least favorite pajamas and his ghostly mourning shawl, and that  _oh yeah it was the middle of the night._  "Have I forgotten to compensate for the time zones again? Oh, darn it!"

As Anti-Sanderson crashed into the seat on Anti-Cosmo's left, he stuck out his tongue. It flickered like a slice of lime between his yellow fangs. "Well, we woulda been in the Hy-Brasil Central zone right now if  _someone_ hadn't gone and redrawn all the lines so they were all straight and cut like a bunch of cities in half, huh?"

H.P. tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "I'm not sorry."

"Serentip," Anti-Cosmo said for the second time. The hairs shivered on the back of his neck. "That filthy port city on Plane 5? With the crowded sugar bars and the shady alleys and the tourist shops and the gambling house? Have you all gone mad? Good smoke, you have. You've all cracked and I'm the only one of us left with a shred of sanity!" He shoved his wings from beneath their covering and unfurled them with a snap. "No. Good day to you all!"

When he flew past Jorgen's shoulder, Jorgen simply brought his hand up and caught him. He dropped the anti-fairy back in the car. "Tough tuna salad, shakywings. We have made our VIP dinner reservations, and you are only making it increasingly obvious that you need to unwind more than anyone."

While the thought of a large meal at a respectable Fairy restaurant was reassuring, the timing of the event was hardly preferable. Oblivious to this, Anti-Sanderson waved his hand in the air like a unicorn's swatting tail. "Hey, hey, unwinding is good for the soul and the spine!"

"I'm not decent," protested the anti-fairy, finally fumbling to cover his shirtless body with his hands. Even when pulled shut, it wasn't like the wispy shawl covered a great deal.

H.P. leaned back in his seat. "A.C., in case you haven't noticed, you're all scales on the back and fuzz in the front. Like an armadillo. Literally no one cares. Also, you're a drake. There's not much there to hide."

Not much but a few purple marks across his neck he didn't exactly want to flaunt. Anti-Cosmo pinched his lip. "Yes, but  _no one_  sees me uncovered outside the roosting room! Let's not forget I'm an important figurehead and I have an image to maintain. Ooh, if the poofarazzi gets wind of this…!"

"-then there'll be Darkness to pay. I understand. Cool off, dude. I can afford it for all of us. Anyway, you should've thought about this problem before you opened the door half-dressed." H.P. tossed him a wrinkled white shirt he'd pulled from beneath the passenger seat. "Here. You can put that on."

Anti-Cosmo shoved one wrist across his mouth. His clawed toes curled into the gray carpet. "Why are you all  _here?_ "

"Not to hurl you in my jail," Jorgen assured him. "Or at least, I will not be hurling yet."

"How charming."

Anti-Sanderson sat forward on his knees.  _Good glory_ , Anti-Cosmo thought when he looked at him. He really needed to march over to Anti-Pixie Isle and force a new wardrobe on that boy, didn't he? One of his shoes was gray, the other white, and the toes had worn away until they looked more like sandals and his broken claws stuck out like worms. That yellow jacket with the red splotches he always wore and never washed hung from his shoulders in patches and tatters. It left more than a few of the thick pink scars on his back exposed to the cold air. His father's old blue hat kept slipping over his eyes. Recently he'd tied a batch of jingle bells to its end, so it twinkled even louder than the Head Pixie's little star every time he moved. And his purple trousers! Well, perhaps best not to look too long at those, considering that his scruffy green  _tail_  wagged shamelessly in the air…

… Yes, Anti-Cosmo redirected his attention to the clasped hands in his lap.

"Aww, what'd you think we were up to?" Anti-Sanderson cooed. "We're dragging you out to a diape' party, 'cuz we love ya, boss."

Anti-Cosmo lifted his eyes again. "Diaper party? You mean… Oh, smoke. This is that Seelie tradition of showering expecting parents with gifts and a game night, isn't it?"

Jorgen crouched beside the limo. Even with hot effervescence now ruffling his ears, Anti-Cosmo couldn't help but flick his gaze between the fairy and the passenger seat. It was shoved back and rumpled, the dashboard dented- obviously, Jorgen had ridden there on the way up, though how he'd managed to cram himself in was a secret yet unexplained. "Well," he said, snaking a muscled arm behind Anti-Cosmo's and Anti-Sanderson's necks, "we cannot simply sit and do nothing but let your wife steal all the womanly attention while you slip deep into obscurity with no friends."

"I have friends," Anti-Cosmo whined as his ears drooped.

Jorgen stared at him down his nose. "And so we came, didn't we?"

"We came for moral support," H.P. acknowledged, "and because this is my last chance to drink before I have to worry about Pixie 507. You know I never turn down a night to clink soda bottles with my closest compatriots."

Anti-Sanderson grinned. He leaned across Anti-Cosmo's lap to tap Jorgen on the wrist. "Heeey! Speakin' of which, congrats on the wedding you didn't invite me to! That Tooth Fairy's a fine slice of cheese. When does the next von Strangle puppet hit the scene?"

"Oh gods," Anti-Cosmo muttered, sinking into his seat.

"Anti-pixies have got virgin-dar," Anti-Sanderson went on. Smugness fell like drool from his tongue. "Look, you'll have to ask her about doin' it sometime. You're getting old, pops!"

Jorgen put his hand on the headrest of H.P.'s seat and squeezed. "And so is he."

H.P. paused. His hand hovered over the empty mug in the limo's cup holder. "I literally cannot argue with that."

"Jorgen. Hap. H.P." Anti-Cosmo straightened up, folding his wings along his spine. "Look here. In all honesty, I do recognize and appreciate what you are trying to do for me, but you don't understand. Th-there's been a misunderstanding."

"What?" Jorgen had gotten distracted with the leather wedding band on his middle finger (A wedding band, Anti-Cosmo couldn't help noticing, which he himself could easily have used as a belt). "Cosmo and Wanda had a fairy baby. You are Cosmo's anti-fairy. You and Anti-Wanda are due to have a fairy baby. What could be clearer than that?"

Anti-Cosmo swallowed. The two candles in the nursery burned against the backs of his eyelids. "Um…"

"You don't wanna go with us?"

That was Anti-Sanderson. Nervous claws tapped against the padded seats. At the crack in his voice, even H.P. turned around with knitted brows.

"Anti-Cosmo, you can't be serious. I even left Sanderson at home for this. You've always said you'd enjoy just the four of us one day getting-"

"I know what I once said!" Anti-Cosmo grabbed two handfuls of his hair and puffed out his cheeks. "Just- just… It's not you, it's just that…"

" _Please?_ "

Jorgen on the ground, Anti-Sanderson on the limo floor, H.P. in the front seat. All three of them were literally on their knees, holding up clasped hands as they attacked him on all fronts with anxious eyes. Their evening fun balanced on a thin cord. Anti-Cosmo stared back, his jaw slack against his chest.

 _Oh my smoke,_  he thought.  _Even with the mourning shawl, they really don't know!_

Well, how could they?

Anti-Sanderson coughed. "Y'know, Jorgen let me off the Isle for this, and I don't really wanna get paraded back like a loser, so…"

Anti-Cosmo hesitated, clutching the white shirt H.P. had tossed him in his lap. "I was going to stay here with Anti-Wanda and the baby. She's, um, pregnant and everything."

Jorgen scoffed, "You'll let her wander the entire Region with the baby on the way, and you cannot let her stay home without you for even one night?"

"I thought we were friends," H.P. pouted in monotone. "Have I read too much into our relationship?"

"Smoof, I don't want to do this. The side effects of my iris virus are starting to act up again and I'm not at all in the mood…"

Anti-Sanderson's hand came smacking hard and fast below the wings. "And that's why we're gonna fix that. Lose the shoulde' dress, captain. Where we're going, blue's a color, not a mood."

For a long time, Anti-Cosmo kneaded his toes into the soft limo carpet. It was gray carpet. Very nice gray carpet. And clean. H.P.'s personal ride, most likely (or one of them). Anti-Sanderson bounced on his right with seatbelt buckle in hand, bells jingling from his hat. Free of his island prison and excited to mingle again. Jorgen had a star-shaped pager dangling from his belt, but no giant staff in plain sight. And there was him, cold and quiet and very much alone tonight.

They were just four drakes. Hoping to do what drakes do at parties on Saturday nights.

Anti-Cosmo allowed himself to smile and pulled the nightcap off his usual bowler hat. Then he unfastened the clasp on his shawl. When he'd carefully untangled the threads from his wings, he set it aside and unfolded the wrinkled white shirt instead.

"Well. Perhaps I  _could_  use a bit of a lift to my spirits tonight, hm? I won't promise to be very exciting, but I won't make the lot of you miserable on my account."

Anti-Sanderson wrenched open the cardboard box at his feet and hurled a handful of the contents into the air. Diapers fell like raindrops on their heads. "Woo-wee! H-Pix, toss me the keys! I know a shortcut."

Jorgen poked Anti-Sanderson on the head as he stepped over the entire cloudcar and then began to fold himself in the passenger's seat. "We would hardly need to drive if we wanted to skip the ride."

"But I wanna get behind the wheel! I never get to be behind the wheel!"

H.P. plugged the star-capped antenna of his cell phone into the key slot and closed the drawer after it. "Because you don't have a license. Or an active wand, and I'm not paying your coverage. It's my limo. I drive."

Anti-Cosmo clicked his belt across his lap. "H.P., I have a question regarding the size of this car and its alleged 'limousine' status-"

"You can shut up."

The car's wheels spun until white smoke leaked out from beneath the chassis. Anti-Cosmo leaned from the side until a miniature cloud had taken form underneath them, and H.P. guided their ride across the bright purple drawbridge.

"Spikes in your driveway?"

"They funnel out the helepolises."

"Ah."

The anti-fairy drew back his head. "You've scouted out a nice place to spend your evening, I hope? What is it? A Fairy World lake with cold water and a private beach, and a cooler of ice and drinks on a table of snacks? A theatre? Ooh, I do love a good play. Perhaps a day at the races? While I'm not normally a betting man, I might could be coaxed to get in on the sport for just one night. Though I will need to make a stop to draw out some of my funds. Well?"

"Oh, you know," Jorgen said with a vague flick of his hand.

Anti-Cosmo tightened his smile until it twitched into a thin line. "Ahaha… But really, where are we going?"

"Hey," Anti-Sanderson chirped, sliding the cardboard box over to Anti-Cosmo with his foot. "Did you see this stack of diape's we brought along for you? And this is just one box. We've got like six more in the trunk. How's that for a gift showe'?"

Anti-Cosmo sat silently rigid with his hands wrapped over his knees as the cloudcar bumped its way across Anti-Fairy World at a tauntingly 'chicken with the Keepers' kind of speed. Owls and small bats flitted by occasionally, chasing insects and rodents that now-sleeping anti-fairies had left to live another night.

"H.P.?" he said finally when the skies on the horizon began to roll from red to pale purple. "Jorgen? Hap? Are you by chance dragging me out to a nightclub?"

"I wouldn't call it a nightclub," H.P. said carefully.

"Oh gods, stop the car. Stop it or I'll jump, I swear!"

Anti-Sanderson was on him immediately, holding his shoulders and shushing him with tongue clicks and pats. "Hey, hey, it's nothin' bad, s'not like we're sneaking you out to a strip club or the like. Not when we're celebrating your wife and baby, c'mon, guy. Don't get that way."

Anti-Cosmo glared at him as the Divide gate came into view ahead, along with the Port of Entry booth and a familiar floating blackboard.  _Welcome to Hy-Brasil, The Land Red Like an Ember- Otherwise known as Anti-Fairy World_ was scrawled across the top. The numbers 1 through 24 were written out beneath it in fuzzy, glowing white. The 3 was currently green and circled.  _NEW_  had been written above the 2 in all capital letters. The 8 was marked with a star and a  _You are here_. Numbers 13 through 24 were all crossed out.

H.P. slowed the car. More than a handful of anti-fairies flitted around the Divide, giggling like pups over a slipper full of spiders. The irritating green film that had once spanned between the gate's sky-reaching bars had been removed following a particularly nasty Council meeting concerning that incident with the strange visitors from the bulgy universe. Or more specifically, a Council meeting concerning an incident with sharp-tongued, high-shouldered, and sleep-deprived Timothy standing his ground against the smoldering tip of Jorgen's staff (A good boy, and Anti-Cosmo had given up on using Cosmo's fagiggly gland to excuse his growing affection for the lad). But, though the Barrier had gone down, bitter feelings had not, and legal politeness insisted the car pull up beside the camarilla member on duty and state their business if they planned to pass through.

Hm? Oh, yes. To Anti-Sanderson, Anti-Cosmo said, "I assure you, if a single damsel  _poof_ s away her clothes in front of me, I'll snatch up the nearest wand and flash back to the gate here in the time it takes a genie to snap his fingers. I'll not do anything that would injure Anti-Wanda's feelings."

Anti-Sanderson chuckled. "You're so old-fashioned, turkeypaste."

The comment itself didn't sting, but as his thoughts wandered to his own words and whether he would have the courage to follow through with them if the situation should present itself, Anti-Cosmo lowered his burning face.

"We're going back the other way now," H.P. told Anti-Scarlett as he tipped down his glasses. She hovered by the gate in her booth, her ears twitching as she sized up their misfit traveling party. He continued with, "And now we have the High Count and Head Anti-Pixie with us. Please set our destination to Plane 5."

Anti-Sanderson blew his party blower in greeting. Anti-Scarlett looked in Anti-Cosmo's direction. He bobbed his head.

"Yes, I'm in my proper frame of mind, darling. I'll only be out a couple of hours. These two are out to a late supper, Hap and I to an early breakfast, hm? If Anti-Wanda wakes before my return, tell her I'll be home to the Castle soon with one of those little pink Fairy cakes she so dearly likes."

"Have a nice trip," she said, sounding as puzzled as she looked, but she picked up her wand and gave it a wave anyway. A light silver mist settled around the cloudcar. It stayed silver around Jorgen and H.P., but the vapor clinging to Anti-Cosmo instantly turned gold, and the vapor around Anti-Sanderson went bright scarlet.

"Aw, what?"

"Hand it all over, sir," Anti-Scarlett deadpanned, putting the wand down.

The anti-pixie made a face, but shuffled around in the pockets of his hideous jacket. He pulled out a pair of safety scissors, a crumpled paper bag with sticky traces of peppermint bark around its opening, a dead locust, and a tiny calico kitten who blinked and mewled. He hopped from the car to place them all on Anti-Scarlett's desk.

"That's the 'smuggling cultural artifacts' alert on me, wasn't it?" Anti-Cosmo showed her that his pajama pants and white shirt had no pockets. "Sunnie set it off."

"Can you ask him to tone it down so we can get through?" Jorgen asked, glancing back.

Anti-Cosmo stared at him as Anti-Sanderson continued searching his pockets for contraband items. "Yes, Jorgen. I can casually wave my hand and snap my intimate link with the ancient nature spirit whose influence over water I channel, whose zodiac I represent on the camarilla, and who won't hesitate to snatch my body for a vessel the instant I set foot inside any of his b _rrr_ others _'_  temples."

"I know I have seen him judge at the Fairy World Games and the Bake-Off before," the fairy mumbled, injured.

"So, about the scientific evidence regarding Rhoswen syndrome's support of Daoism," H.P. said, folding his arms behind his neck. "We should talk about that."

"Oh gods, H.P., not this again. You realize you are literally arguing your theology against that of a drake who spends 99.9% of his waking life in the silent but ever-present company of the actual third-oldest grandson of Mother Nature and Father Time." Anti-Cosmo reached for the blue gem on his cravat, then remembered what he'd been wearing when Jorgen had yanked him through the Castle door. His nose twitched.

"Yes," H.P. mused. "I've met Sunnie. And frankly I'm not impressed."

" _You bulldozed his sacred temple to make room for a Boudacian restaurant!_ He wasn't exactly in the most stable frame of mind."

"It was in my way."

Anti-Sanderson slapped another fistful of dried leaves on Anti-Scarlett's desk. "Guys, guys, just be like me. I'm both Daoist and Zodii."

They both ignored him.

"Well, High Count, you have no shoes for me to check, so I guess you're clean." Anti-Scarlett waved her wand again. The silver mist settled again and went red when it touched Anti-Sanderson as before. H.P. and Jorgen turned around. Rolling his eyes so their lavender color flashed, Anti-Sanderson began another search through his pockets.

"I don't know what else you want from me, star-top. I've given over everything but my empty candy wrappers and a couple a' skipping stones."

"You can keep those. What's that in your sheath?"

Anti-Sanderson hesitated. Then, with a long scratch of unpeeled bark rubbing against silver, he drew a battered wand. "Hey, this is just gingertie wood. I grew it myself in one of my greenhouses. I'm allowed to have this. Look, it doesn't even have rosewate' in the star cap. C'mon, Anti-Scar, you're embarrassing me in front a' the guys. Can we go?"

Now satisfied that he was silver, Anti-Scarlett rotated a dial in her booth. The circle around the number 3 on the blackboard clicked to 4, and then to 5. After a good sixty seconds, the white number lit up green. Their connection was stable. H.P. slid his glasses into place again and leaned back against his seat. Jorgen tapped one large finger against the dashboard and finally gave a shout to send the anti-fairies in their path scampering away. The gate swung open to make way for the cloudcar, and they sped through.  _Welcome to Tír Ildáthach_  read the sign on this side,  _The Land of Many Colors_.  _Otherwise known as Fairy World. Plane 5: You are here._

Beyond the booth on this side of the gate, they were greeted by sprawling fields of pink and green clover. Clover that the residents of Little Olympus kept saying they'd get around to yanking out, and yet never did. The wafting aura some of the hidden four-leafs gave off was enough to make both Anti-Fairies in the car break into light rashes as they drove past. Anti-Cosmo had crossed this way hundreds of times before, but he still found himself nibbling on his lower lip as he considered what the clover represented. The Barrier  _was_  down now, legally. He really ought to bring up this clover issue the next time he attended a Council meeting. It was high time for the quiet acts of racism to change around here.

Once under the Sunrise Skies again, the cloudcar rapidly picked up speed. Anti-Sanderson hurled pebbles and candy wrappers at stray foops and coin sith sniffing among greasy heaps of trash bags. The tiny tourist town of Little Olympus faded behind them. Anti-Cosmo sank his claws into the seat leather as their ride took every jump between the clouds as easily as a crack in the sidewalk. Jorgen shouted scores for every approaching cloudbreak, and laughed each time they landed across a gap with a particularly heavy thump.

"Woo!" Anti-Sanderson leaned far over the right side, his scruffy tail waving. "We're zooming fast now. I gotta borrow Anti-Longwood's jeep more often. Oh smoke, push it harder, H-Pix! Harder!"

"I'm going to be sick," Anti-Cosmo groaned.

"Don't puke butterflies in my nice clean limo."

"I will change course and have you thrown in jail," Jorgen agreed.

So Anti-Cosmo stuffed the long sleeve of his borrowed shirt between his fangs and bit down hard. He managed to keep his stomach settled, even though he could feel the beginnings of sickly caterpillars gathering at the base of his throat, all the way to Serentip. When the cloudcar mercifully rolled to a stop and settled in a parking space, melding its wheels to the solid vapor below, Anti-Cosmo raised his eyes to the tall, brass-colored building that spread to the sky.

Perhaps they weren't the first thing everyone noticed, but Anti-Cosmo's eyes shot instantly to the enormous glass windows plastered across the walls, and he found himself gritting his fangs. Note to self, then: He wouldn't let himself forget to echolocate. Limestone carvings of great horned owls perched in place of the more traditional gargoyles on every window ledge. A neon sun with twirling beams shooting from its center flashed on a sign above the building's double doors, each of which was propped open by a shameless pixie scouting out… business opportunities. Both waved when they saw their boss's silver car settle in the lot. Music poured through those open doors and flitted through the air like a tangible thing. A pair of Keepers in their water-blue uniforms idled beneath a street sign on the corner that read  _Artemis_ and _Cairo_. Their squad car lazed on the sidewalk behind them. The ride had ended, but Anti-Cosmo almost emptied his stomach anyway.

"Hold the scry bowl. This is the Artemis Lounge. I specifically remember you saying we wouldn't be going to a nightclub tonight."

"I said I wouldn't call it a nightclub," H.P. corrected, opening the ignition drawer again. He unplugged his starpiece. "If I had, you would have jumped out of my limo and been smashed flat. That's gross. Everybody out."

Jorgen stepped over the side of the convertible without opening his door, and Anti-Sanderson happily followed his lead. Anti-Cosmo remained rooted where he sat.

"I'm not going. All three of you know exactly who owns this place."

"Of course," Anti-Sanderson said without missing a beat. "What bette' place is there for the leade's of fou' different species to hang out for the night?"

H.P. shrugged. "It's true. Here, people like us get free drinks between sunset and sunrise." To emphasize this idea, he pointed to the sun on the neon sign. "Red means it's sunset in the time zone below. When it's sunrise down there, the sign turns purple. See?"

"You said you paid to make reservations," Anti-Cosmo hissed.

Anti-Sanderson spread his arms and wings together. "Why would we reserve anything othe' than the Kingly Korner, bluebird? You know it's  _ours_. They've got an enti'e fifth of our VIP booth decorated in anti-pixie colo's!"

Anti-Cosmo refrained from asking the obvious question: If there were any colors that  _weren't_  considered anti-pixie colors.

"I could carry you, if that lets us get in faster," Jorgen offered.

The Head Pixie raised one hand, his fingers poised to snap. Then he let it drop. "Anti-Cosmo, this place has existed for less than… more than… about three millennia, and you've never been inside once. You're celebrating something special. Let tonight be that night."

"There's unlimited soft-serve ice cream to the fou' of us," Anti-Sanderson wheedled.

"It comes at too high a price, if  _she's_  going to be huffing down our necks. She offers us four exclusive benefits to get us right where she wants us, and you all know it. We're walking into land of the lotus-eaters so she can lure us into sin, for no reason but to squish us all beneath her sandal and mock us horribly while she strips our defenses bare. Every time! I don't understand. While I can't speak on Anti-Sanderson's behalf since I was under the impression he was  _not to leave his Isle without my explicit permission_ , I know that  _you two_  both constantly subject yourselves to this torture. Then I have to hear you complain about your regrets if ever our unfortunate paths cross soon after. She's seductive and sadistic, and whenever you're sober, you all despise her. I'm not going."

Anti-Cosmo ended his rant with a huff. All three members of his audience moved to either massage their knuckles, rub behind their necks, or fiddle with the ends of their wings. Anti-Cosmo watched them twitch with self-satisfied pleasure, though it didn't actually make him feel much better. "Sometimes we make it through all night and we don't bump into her," Jorgen said.

Anti-Sanderson stuck up his nose. "Well, you puppies can stay here in the limo with the sou'puss if you want to. But I'm an anti-pixie. I don't hate no one and no one outfoxes an anti-pixie in clubbing terr'atory. Peace out." With a parting blow of his party blower, he cheerily skipped away.

"Pixie 507," H.P. said by way of explanation, and went after him in a slightly more dignified manner. Anti-Cosmo bit his desperate lip.

"Um. Jorgen?"

"I cannot simply let you out of my sight in Fairy World," the giant fairy mumbled. His fingers twitched for a staff he didn't have on him, bones crunching as he flexed his hand. Muscles rippled beneath his sleeveless green shirt.

As the reality of he, more often a wanted criminal mastermind than he wasn't, sitting in a parking lot alone with the short-fused and now quite frustrated Keeper of Da Rules sank in, Anti-Cosmo's claws flashed for his seatbelt. "You know, on second thought, a night in the Lounge sounds like a lovely way to pass an evening. Well, ta!"

The two of them caught up to H.P. and Anti-Sanderson just outside the doors (Jorgen before Anti-Cosmo, even with the latter straining his wings). Since H.P. had gotten distracted by his two spritely pixies (Anti-Cosmo knew  _exactly_  why they were stationed there and didn't endorse it in the least), he tentatively followed Anti-Sanderson inside.

First, they had to stop so they could be ID'd and deprived of their starpieces. Two curtains crafted entirely of ruddy brown feathers blocked the way further. Or more correctly, they  _would_  have had to stop so they could be ID'd and deprived of their starpieces. There was a short line of waiting Fairykind ahead of them, but the bouncer scrutinizing the front ishigaq's card noticed them immediately and lit up. Everyone snapped to attention as a wave of pheromones and dominance signals washed over them all. No one protested when the cheery bouncer waved them through. In fact, several people even begged for autographs, or reached out to brush their fingers across their clothes and whisper and giggle in the shadows. Anti-Cosmo slipped into his broadest smile and greeted each one who called him by name in the properly modest manner. In mourning or not, he could manage that.

Anti-Cosmo, Anti-Sanderson, and Jorgen (and H.P., who had hurried after them) pushed through the feathered curtain together. While even now he considered himself too gentlemanly to be caught in such a place, the natural flutter of curiosity that guided so many of his actions kept him moving anyway. H.P. was right. He'd never been inside the Lounge before. Sure, he'd heard stories from the camarilla. Anti-Scott in particular was fond of the place. Anti-Cosmo had high suspicions that Anti-Wanda's frequent travels led her here any time she could slip through the Barrier, but he never pressed her about it.

Well, he was firm in his personal cleanliness, she a free spirit he trusted completely with her own reins. Sometimes he elected not to spring her out of prison until he'd managed to get a little work done in the peace and quiet of the Castle. Sometimes peace and quiet snapped her nerves and she sought a burst of energy from laughter and smiles- and the occasional broken mirror or sprinkle of salt among a crowd. Such was the nature of their relationship.

The roar of the music hit them first- louder, somehow, on this side of the curtain than even a step away. Was it really music? Or only chaos? Either way it was painful, neither to his tastes in terms of style nor set at a volume suitable for Anti-Fairy ears. All too quickly, it became apparent that the Artemis Lounge had been tailored to individuals who relied on their sight far more than their hearing to navigate. Purple and blue lights streamed to and from all directions. Several of them rotated around the room, which consisted of huge couches, squishy chairs, and side tables. Dozens and dozens of tiny side tables were piled high with empty cans and bottles. Most of them floated in the air. A stage lay somewhere to Anti-Cosmo's right… or at least, he guessed it did, considering that the space over there was so empty, and positioned behind a low rail. Enormous pink chandeliers, dripping with long trails of crystal-like bulbs, hung over the entire dance floor. The second floor was a balcony, circling in a ring over their heads.

Along its edges, the place was dark. Apparently those floor-to-ceiling windows he'd seen from outside were all positioned upstairs. Not that they would have let in much but dim starlight. Darkness wouldn't have been a problem, but with jazzy saxophones and blaring trumpets sweep jamming him from every possible side, his echolocation was effectively out of commission. Anti-Cosmo squeezed his eyes shut. The caterpillars returned to his stomach, this time blossoming into full butterflies as they struggled up his throat.

But Anti-Sanderson had him covered. He pressed two brass rings into Anti-Cosmo's palm. The anti-fairy blinked.

"These aren't-"

" _Canetis_  rings," said the anti-pixie, an embarrassed edge to his voice. "Even I need 'em sometimes, so I always keep a bunch on hand. But don't spread it around too much, bluebell. It'd wreck my whole crazy reputation and I worked hard on that."

Anti-Cosmo thanked him and clipped each ring into place. His ears, now weighed down by the metal, instantly folded into themselves and crumpled against his skull. Of course they didn't block everything that way - the rings were intended to scare inexperienced pups from up and wandering off wherever their roaming eyes or echolocation may lead them while their parents turned their backs; deafening all sounds would have been impractical - but they did tone the club's noise down to an actually manageable level. The clashing of the instruments even morphed into, well… music.

"Bette'?"

"Ohh, significantly."

He gazed again across the Lounge as he fiddled with the second ring. Yes, blue and purple streamlights filled the air. The place was enormous, though… not in the way he was used to. In Anti-Fairy World, buildings were long and low. Whole colonies of anti-fairies could hang together that way. Fairy World's architecture favored the vertical emphasis. The logical solution for a race of beings who wished to hover as they conversed. Rather than, you know… sit in grounded chairs.

To his left, a curled staircase with steps that looked gold (decorated with a few ignorant people who didn't seem to understand that the stairs were there to be stairs, not seats) ran up to the second floor. On the far side of the room, he could spot a bustling sugar bar. Colorful candy packets lined the back shelves, while cakes and brownies filled the glass cases in front. Even his nose could pick up the scents of orange and mint. In the center place of honor sat the soda fountain. Partly for practical purposes but mainly for aesthetic, barrels of what Anti-Cosmo assumed were straight, unwatered soda were positioned above each spout. Stacks of them reached all the way up the wall, until they hit the balcony of the second floor.

There was indeed a stage over to his right, with a performer making hand gestures and saying something he could no longer make out. Singing? Well, perhaps he wouldn't have heard her from here even without the rings. Floating couches and tables left plenty of room on the floor for dancing. If you could call those flailing movements dancing. Anti-Cosmo was not impressed. Anti-Fairy celebrations were far more elegant than these, and their entertainment graceful and refined.

Fairies and Anti-Fairies bustled about by foot and by wing, though the former group seemed to be the main partiers of the evening whereas the latter mostly made up the population flitting about with platters and drinks. With the Barrier down these days, more and more of his people were securing honest work, which was probably good news. Bad news for some of his more elaborate evil plans, but good news for them personally, and that was what mattered most. Anti-Cosmo tried to find a face he recognized, but the sheer amount of bustling bodies and whirring wings in the dark overwhelmed him too soon, and he closed his mouth.

Serentip was Fairy World's largest port city, and it was no accident that the owner of the Lounge had chosen to place her business here. Not only were Fairies and Anti-Fairies crossing the floor, but multiple alien races - Delkians, Scarabids, Muriros - mingled freely among them. Tourists on summer holiday? Starsailors eager to slip away from the docks? Most likely a bit of both. Even a couple of genies flickered at the edges of their hearing, registering as gonging sounds in the energy field even without snapping their fingers. Well, at least that would give him something to do, see if he could identify them as one of the dozens he'd met before…

Still, Anti-Cosmo couldn't hold back a sniff. The whole place smelled of oily skin, sweaty fur, and suffocating perfume, with the occasional whiff of vegetables and meat from those who had actually grabbed menus and requested meals. Evidently, Fairies did that. "Contrary to popular belief, we Anti-Fairies are the voice of sophistication and etiquette in the cloudlands.  _Not_  blind chaos. I don't care if a sample of the population seem to be enjoying themselves tonight. Whenever I see messy displays such as this, I don't understand why any alien race ever chose to contact us at all."

"They din't," Anti-Sanderson chortled. "We had a' go to them. Why do you think the godchildren stuff eve' started? Politics." He lifted his hands above his head. "Okay. Guys, I brought bright pink bowties for everyone. That way we won't lose each othe' in the craziness."

Anti-Cosmo looked at him. Then he looked at H.P. Then he looked at Jorgen. "I'm not sure that will be necessary, actually." He grimaced and out of habit moved his hand down to his left hip. No wand, and no sheath either- those had been left in the Head Pixie's cloudcar. Hoping the others hadn't noticed his anxious twitch, he made a show of adjusting his monocle instead. "Well, I don't expect to have a long night. I'm very uncomfortable with all of this."

"You'll warm to it, sugarkale," Anti-Sanderson assured him, patting the anti-fairy's chest twice. The bells jingled on his hat. "You just need ta loosen up."

"No, I don't expect I'll be loosening up much." Anti-Cosmo skimmed his eyes around the club's lower floor once more, streaking his claws through his hair. Over the last two months, his usual attentiveness to it had slipped; while always carefully scruffy, his bangs had grown too long in the front, and his blue curls too thick in the back. His claws snagged in a tangle. He probably hadn't brushed it for a week. Maybe two. "I say. I haven't been a participant in a party with straight soda since… Smoke, would that have been my stag party? Charming event, that, by which of course I mean it wasn't."

"What abou' my coronation?"

"Ah, yes. Although, Anti-Wanda and I left early."

Anti-Sanderson stuck out his tongue. "Wow, I forgot you were lame. Let's go find our Korner. It's on the upper floor. Private suga' bar up there, all the time, just for us VIPs."

"And if you should catch the eye of a certain busybody damsel," Jorgen said, stepping over Anti-Cosmo's head, "I all of a sudden don't know you."

"Jorgen, we're hardly the least attention-grabbing of guests."

No one seemed to hear him. With a roll of his eyes, Anti-Cosmo spread his wings and flew up the stairs after his companions. Ah, well. The hustle and bustle of the club itself might not be to his specific tastes, but H.P. and Jorgen had both attended dozens of Tarrow Festivals at the Blue Castle over the centuries. Probably, Anti-Sanderson had too. Anti-Cosmo had shown them his party life. Now they wanted to show him theirs. The least he could do was think positive about it. If nothing else, he could revel in the fact that several Fairies recognized him and scooted out of his way, bending their heads and whispering as he passed.

At the top of the stairs, he paused. The smell of hot curry intertwined with ribbons of ancient magic was stronger up here, even to his pathetic nose. He knew that scent well. It had been burned into the back of his brain after thousands of years spent handling lamps and glowing blobby babies. The repetitive gonging noise ran low enough that his Seelie companions didn't appear to notice it (not that they ever seemed to in the best of circumstances, but then again, he never 'tasted' what they could sense either). The sound rattled his teeth right down to their roots. Though his ears had been flattened, Anti-Cosmo twitched them anyway.

Oh… He knew that vocal signature in the energy field. That genie was one of his.

Anti-Cosmo glanced in the direction his companions had gone. There were booths and tables spread around the balcony loop. Yes, there were those windows he had been eyeballing too, the view they offered of the city and docked skyships partially blocked by the hunched stone backs of chiseled owls. A live one even perched between them, gazing silently through the glass with a mouse dangling from its beak. Fewer people up here than below. Curious eyes slid over his face, recognizing his status and making way for him to pass, but no longer thronging around him for autographs and handshakes. They understood. Tonight, he was one of their crowd.

H.P., Jorgen, and Anti-Sanderson spritelined for a roped-off booth in the shadows that had an excellent view of the stage below and was situated near an equally roped-off sugar bar and soft serve ice cream station. As Anti-Sanderson had promised, the rounded bench had been split into five decorative patterns, and each drew inspiration from a particular Fairykind race; getting settled would keep them entertained for a minute. Anti-Cosmo's eyes trailed towards the balcony railing on his right.

There. A genie with thin shoulders, black curls, a pale blue vest, and a smoky tail glimmering the same color. He leaned over the banister, most probably scouting the dance floor below for a female genie he was interested in getting to know this evening. The end of his tail wound loosely around the nearest table leg.

The Head Pixie called his name. Anti-Cosmo glanced back and held up one claw, signalling that he only wanted a moment before he rejoined the group. Rather than follow them, he cleared his throat and approached the genie. "Well now. Out of your lamp for the eve and you didn't even swing by my Castle to fill me in on your latest excursions? I taught you better manners than that. I say, Norm, it's always herding black cats when it comes to reunions with you, hm?"

The genie's back stiffened unmistakably. For several seconds, Norm didn't turn around. His knuckles tightened over the rail. Even when he did twist, it wasn't in full, but he did glance down to get a look at the anti-fairy hovering near his waist. His familiar shades were perched up in his hair rather than his nose. As a rule, all Fairykind irises glowed like faint embers in the dark, though split among three counterparts it was a poor shadow of what their united Aos Sí ancestors had supposedly been able to achieve. But genies, well, they were ancient creatures too, and their eyes glowed like struck matches against a mirror.

Norm's eyes were violet. Hot, smoldering violet.

"Hey, Vladimir Vegan. A pleasure to bump into you again. And on neutral ground this time. I see your wardrobe's gone from blue to white." His eyes roamed down to Anti-Cosmo's feet. He arched one brow. "And… checkers are in this season, apparently. Finally gave up on those nightshirts after one too many flopped upside-down in your face?"

Anti-Cosmo ignored the comment, tracing his own eyes down Norm's arms. Norm saw him looking and his hands twitched. But, he didn't stuff them behind his back this time. Instead, he simply cleared his throat.

"I see from the way you're floating you still limp with your right wing when you fly. Right side loser, eh?"

"Yes, yes, you're awfully amusing." Anti-Cosmo checked both left and right, but no one seemed to be paying them any attention. He saw no humans. Only fellow magical beings, who had no ability to activate a genie's lamp. It would seem that Norm had come alone. Well, time to ask the innocent question, then. "I can clearly see you're here, and I see the braces are still on your wrists, but I don't see your master around."

Norm smirked. "Ended up in warm, sunny Seattle after Jarhead mistook my lamp for his wife's emergency coin bank and rushed me down to Tooth Fairy Enterprises. Fell on the conveyor belt and woke up to a startled little girl rubbing my lamp while she groped under her pillow for a coin. Standard 'I want a thousand more wishes' request is in play right now. I tricked her into thinking I can't grant any of them until she finishes telling me what they all are. Should be a few weeks at least before she finishes writing every single one down. Until she does, I'm as good as free."

"Clever boy." Anti-Cosmo jumped up and sat on the rail beside the genie's hand. "Say, did you hear? I'm pregnant! Or, well," he managed through a nervous chuckle, "that is to say,  _I'm_ not pregnant anymore, but you understand."

"And thus the breeder becomes the bred." Norm finally turned around and rubbed Anti-Cosmo's scruffy hair with his palm. "Who's the mother? Wanda Prime? Hey, speaking of which, I saw her at Fairy Idol and told her you'd love having her over for dinner sometime."

Anti-Cosmo caught his breath. "What did she say to that?"

"You're a creep and the next time she catches you staring at her wings, she's going to stuff you in Sunnie's temple and set the place alight. Not sure how she plans to do that when, as I recall, he's the  _water_  nature spirit, but hey. So, I'm guessing the kid's not hers."

"Um. No, not exactly…"

That earned him a sarcastic whistle. "She shot you down  _again?_  Hey, hey, hey, triple combo bonus."

Anti-Cosmo scuffed the air once with his shoe, thoughtfully, then shook his head and wings at the same time. His knees tightened around the railing. "You really ought to come by my Castle while you're out of your lamp like this, chap, so I can introduce you to my wife properly. Anti-Wanda is a true gem, and I do so love her far more than I've loved any other woman. Oh, you need to meet her. She's quick and graceful when she moves, with that thick curl in her pegasustail bobbing against the back of her neck with a constant pleasant rustle. She tells such marvelous stories regarding her travels through the three Regions of Hy-Brasil, she's absolutely adorable when she eats, and-"

"Toot toot, folks, we are now approaching the tunnel of love. All passengers who didn't sign up to hear the goopy revelries of the smitten may disembark now. But hey, I'll grab my scrapbook from my other pants and you can slap in the deets."

Miffed, Anti-Cosmo trailed off. He reached for his monocle. "Well, yes, anyhow… Enough about me. I'm same old, same old, and busy as ever. You know we Fairykind don't change half as fast as Genies do. But tell me about you! I haven't seen your face in person for ages. Last I did see, you were singing your heart out on that Fairy Idol stage. Really, North, I'm surprised at you. A genie elbowing his way to Fairy freedom with the talents of his voice? Untraditional, and very much your style. Clever, clever boy."

Norm stretched his arms above his head. "Yeah, and probably for the best it didn't work out. Magical backup and I have an understanding. Now it's back to the daily grind for me. At least while I may get saddled with foolish little kids smearing their greedy fingerprints all over my lamp, I get compensated by the freedom to get around while they go off to school or settle into bed. These last few days, I've been having fun."

"Making your mother proud, I hope," Anti-Cosmo said, raising his voice above the music.

"Oh fez no," the genie said with a glittering laugh. He leaned his back on the rail, elbows propped. "But also yes. I'm hardly the philanthropist she wanted, and by this point I'm sure she'd rather I ticked some master off to the point of wishing up a volcano and dropping my lamp inside it, but make no mistake- I have been researching my roots. Sure, Earth is full of selfish idiots and these chilly cloudlands aren't exactly my ancestors' home planet, but I'm making the most if it- pretending to be free. I'll say one thing for this sugarcoated nightmare of a sky-country: if nothing else, it doesn't rain up here. Much. Seattle is a nightmare that way." He shrugged. "I've been meeting ladies. Enjoying my limited freedom. Attending parties that don't require a lot of sitting around and being boring. Nightclubs are much more fun than backstage at Fairy Idol."

"Skye would like that," Anti-Cosmo said honestly. "You living like you're free. Oh, Norm, if she were here to see you how big you've grown…"

"Then I'd just get her standard lecture about how genies were gifted unlimited power to benefit the other races of the universe, how I'd catch more flies with honey than vinegar, and that if I played nicer with the humans, one of them would have wished me free by now. No offense, but I'd rather hear the spiel from a girl in my arms than one on my family tree." He glanced down. "Y'know, you can just ask me straight out. I remember that look, and this time I'm not going to wait around until you explode."

"DoyouhavebabycandlesyetandifsocanIholdthem?" Anti-Cosmo asked in a single burst.

"Baby candles, huh?" Norm pretended to think about it. "Uh, nope, no idea. I try to make a point not to get too cozy with the same girl twice in the same few millennia, if you catch my drift. I can't be held responsible for what I don't know I did."

"Oh," the anti-fairy murmured, deflating. He slipped from the railing back to the floor.

Norm shrugged. "I'm not a family man, Solomon. I'd sooner adopt a kid I already liked than risk raising a baby I won't. Guess the spoiled apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Speaking of spoiled, and avoiding mention of your hair, has my dad been back to the Castle since the last time our paths crossed?"

At that, Anti-Cosmo bit his lip. Norm slid his shades down his nose.

"You know, you've either gotta fix that flick in your left ear when you're thinking up a lie, or you've got to tell my old man to jump off Plane 24."

"I know, I know! But by smoke, he's brilliant at evading my locks. I've even gotten in the habit of sprinkling smoof around the window, but it hardly seems to keep him out. At this point it seems the smartest thing I could do is simply outlast him through to his old age." Anti-Cosmo stamped his foot. "Oooh, that rascal! He's the only genie I've ever known who could slip inside the lamp of a doe between masters and out again just as easily."

"See, now that would be a useful trick to know. Wish you'd tell me who he is so I can tell him 'Hi' if I ever see him around."

The words hung in the air between genie and anti-fairy before upbeat party music swept them away. When a minute had passed, Norm rolled his eyes and pushed his shades back into place with his pinky.

"Riiight, I see the ol' Mr. Pushypat Doormat I knew and loved took off on vacation. Some time ago, from the looks of it. See, this is the sort of thing marriage does to you. Marriage to a dimwitted wanderer who has to be fetched back every time she strays too far out alone and has teeth that could pry open a soda bottle especially."

Anti-Cosmo tightened his fists. "Insulting my wife will earn you no favors. My decision stands, Norman. Short of a wish, you shan't hear his name from me."

A snort. "Hey, keep telling me that and maybe one day I'll forgive you. Someday I'll succeed in urging one of my more sensitive masters to wish me up one of those pedigree charts you so lovingly filled out for me and my ancestors. Or a DNA test; I'm not picky. As usual you're delaying my problems, not solving them. You're just lucky freedom is the bigger priority of mine right now." Norm shrugged again then, the movement sending his tail flicking between the table and Anti-Cosmo's feet. "Hey, at least tell me if you've found a couple more of my sisters in recent centuries. Tracking down available ladies is hard - and finding ladies I actually  _like_  is harder - without me having to automatically swear off any girl with a bluey-purple tail."

Anti-Cosmo thought for a second and told him. Norm snapped his fingers, and a list of the names appeared on a yellow notepad in his hand. He glanced over to ensure its correctness, then pocketed it inside his vest. "You know I'm placing all my trust in you, right? If you're making any of this up, I'll have to twist one of my latest master's thousand wishes and play it right so she stumbles across you in the middle of, I dunno, shooting pigeons out of the sky or something. Whatever it is you do that makes you feel like a criminal mastermind. Taking a mallet to her mother's back? Looking like the bad guy either way."

"Good smoke, North, that's enough! I only saw you tonight and thought we'd catch up for old times' sake. Yet I see you're regrettably as bitter and untrusting as ever, and after all I've done for you." Anti-Cosmo's fingers felt for the nonexistent sheath at his waist again. "I don't much care for your insinuations about my dishonesty, nor do I much like the words you've said about my wife. Of all the things I wish I'd been brave enough to tell you back when you were younger, I do wish I would have disciplined you enough that you could control your tongue!"

Norm put his hands into the air. "Chill, chillytoes. And remember, I don't grant wishes for fellow magic-users. But okay. The next time I meet one of your less than dignified friends, I'll keep my mouth shut."

Anti-Sanderson chose that moment to materialize on Anti-Cosmo's left and knock on his skull with a fist. "I think you cinched those  _canetis_  rings a bit too tight, bean dip. We've been waiting for you ove' there and I've been calling, but you didn't come and then I actually got up to fetch you back. Take foreve' day. Free drinks don't get 'emselves sloshed. Hey, who's your friend? One of your basement buds?" His dirty hand shot out for a shake… or maybe a sniff. You never knew with him. "Hi, currybreath. I'm Hap, and you know it."

Norm stared at the anti-pixie, an audible hum burning on his lips as he drank in the short stature, the chubby figure, the scruffy green fur, the cowlicked electric blond hair, the red and yellow jacket, the star-spattered navy hat, the cracked sunglasses, the perky party blower, the plaque-speckled fangs, the bright blue undershirt, the pink and orange necktie, the ripped purple pants, the drooping flying fox wings, the mismatched gray and white shoes, the smell of wet coin sith, and sound of screeching brakes swirling about his personal imprint. His violet eyes shut. Then they opened again, and he swiveled back around to Anti-Cosmo. "Annnd… that's my cue. I think I'd better flit."

"Don't be a stranger," Anti-Cosmo muttered as his fingers snapped.

 _Canetis_  rings or not, he didn't miss the sarcasm when Norm called, "Hey, you know me too well."

He vanished with a ringing  _gong_.

"Huh. What a weirdo." Anti-Sanderson stared at the spot where the genie had been, then grabbed Anti-Cosmo's arm. "C'mon Blue, you're missing all the fun. It's your party and you'll come if I want you."

Anti-Cosmo allowed himself to be dragged off to the VIP booth and pushed down on a bench that curled around a glass table in a semi-circle. The seats were cushy and soft, like creepy animal fur blankets. It was divided into five colored sections. His place was blue and black, between the green and yellow on his left and the gray on his right. A metal bucket filled with ice rested on the table next to a dish of straight white sugar. Stacked between them were three menus listing various drinks, cakes, candy, and (thankfully) actual serious meals, whether for breakfast, lunch, or supper. Jorgen and H.P. were still sitting there, talking politics as they shuffled playing cards. This ended abruptly when the two Unseelie Courters arrived. The cards got shoved to the side and hungry eyes turned all attention on Anti-Cosmo.

"Took you long enough," Jorgen rumbled. "I was almost about to begin punching unbreakable objects to express my rage."

"Ah… your patience is appreciated." Anti-Cosmo considered mentioning Norm's name and his long history with the genie's family line, then didn't. He'd heard of Fairy Idol only in spurts while he'd been wandering Fairy World with his stomach still sore from the impromptu fagiggly gland transplant, searching for food and clothes or a kindly wand wave. While he didn't know all the details, he seemed to recall Norm and Jorgen having a spat that had resulted in the former's removal from his newfound godparent position. No, best not to mention that.

Slinging an arm around Anti-Cosmo's shoulders, Anti-Sanderson flopped onto the bench beside him. "Hey, so Jorgen brought baby bottles in keepin' with our night's theme, and now that we're all here we're gonna fill 'em all with soda. Pick a flavor from the bucket and we'll have a race to see who downs the whole thing first. I'll win, of course. I always win."

Anti-Cosmo pushed the offered cooler away with a claw. Condensation leaked across his fur. "I'm here for a good breakfast and good company. You all know pe _rrr_ fectly well that I don't drink."

"Aw, what? Not even t'night?"

Jorgen plunged his hand into the ice bucket and felt around until he came up with a can of grape. "That is understandable. You are not even three feet tall, you lightweight blueberry."

Instantly Anti-Cosmo was on his feet. "I am 2'11" by your inferior Seelie measuring system!"

"Yes," H.P. said, leaning an elbow against the table, "and according to my records, your wife is 3'4."

Anti-Sanderson laughed and scrubbed the back of Anti-Cosmo's hair. "I keep fo'getting I'm an inch shorter than this li'l guy, and I just look taller 'cuz of my cowlicks and hat. Look, he's cute."

Anti-Cosmo rubbed his brow above his monocle. The Head Pixie was just over four feet tall, forehead included- there was no winning this fight. Sitting down again and tucking his heels beneath the bench, he said, "You wouldn't much like me sugarloaded anyway, I think. I'm not a very excitable person when I've had a tad too many cookies. I'm one of those fellows who will slur and cry until he falls asleep."

The Head Pixie patted his shoulder. "I'm truly sorry. Now, Jorgen, toss me that can of cherry and let's get wasted."

"Before you do that," chirped a feminine voice from the booth behind them, her words dripping down on their heads, "may I have your boys' attention for a moment, please?"

All fingers froze.

Even without looking up, Anti-Cosmo's sharp ears identified the speaker down to her subspecies. At least, he was quite sure they did… they'd never been wrong before… and if any of her kind were going to slip down to the Deep Kingdom - into a club of all places - then it would be, well… her. Her fellows were content to mill among each other, their various tribes content with fully equal political and social standing, but the woman in question had clawed herself a position of authority where one had previously never existed. Though hardly a rebel by his own people's definition, Anti-Cosmo did have to acknowledge that if anyone from the High Kingdom would lack enough shame to set claw in a nightclub like this one, this smug damsel did.

She did own the place, after all.

The rustling of feathers had been his first clue regarding her identity. With but a few exceptions in cases such as the feathered cherubs and the leathery white wings of the barbegazi, Fairies shared their wings with insects. Anti-Fairies took those of bats. But her people had birds to thank for their ability to fly. They ranged from falcons to wrens to even flamingos and ostriches, but if he remembered correctly (and he knew he did), the heavy wings folded along her particular back could be traced back to the great horned owl. It left them a bit closer to dull brown than the shining gold her people were known for, but she more than made up for that with her personal… charm. As Anti-Cosmo twisted around to blink up at her, carefully adjusting his braided wedding band so the dark blue gem in its center gleamed in plain sight, he straightened his shoulders.

"Ah. Chief Sunchosen. What an… unanticipated surprise. Whatever is a Fairy Refract like you doing down here?"

Dame Artemis Cairo lacked the familiar mustache he knew from her anti-nix counterpart, of course, but the high cheekbones of her feathered white face and the dancing red eyes were hauntingly familiar from the last time their paths had crossed. Instead of the traditional pink or purple robes for her sex, she dressed full-length in silver. Or her clothes were full-length so long as she was around other members of her race, anyway; at the moment, one of her bare white shoulders was exposed down to the wrist. The silver accented the brassy sheen of her thick, short curls rather nicely (Not that he was looking). Each coil rippled and glinted like waves against the shore. Her arms might be dangling over the booth seat, but her movements were not loose in the flowing way that Anti-Sanderson's were. No, even in a place like this, she remained stiff and refined, like a statue in Rome. As Anti-Cosmo shifted closer to the Head Pixie, who had gone tense beside him, Dame Artemis tipped her tall white crown before leaning forward.

"Well boys, it's the darndest thing. Get this: I heard four of the six major executives of the cloudlands were all… having a party? At my place? And you… forgot to invite me to join in again, I guess?"

"We didn't think you'd be interested," the Head Pixie blurted as he slipped his baby bottle beneath the table, at the same time Jorgen said, "It was so spur of the moment," and Anti-Sanderson summarized their mutual feelings with, "No offense, rosycurls, but you're way judgmental and you always make us feel gross about being drakes."

Dame Artemis laced her long talons, painted with gold polish like her hair, together under her chin. She didn't even bat an eye. The ends of her mouth curled almost to the tips of her pointed ears. "Forgive my intrusion, good sirs. I only happened to be making my usual rounds when one of my owls informed me you were on your way. Four political leaders traveling across the cloudlands as a single unit rarely goes unnoticed. I got curious. What's the occasion?"

None of them moved. Anti-Sanderson had stuck his claw through the top of the orange cream soda can a moment ago and not removed it. In the silence weighing down on the booth, it made a long, low, wheezing  _fssssssh_.

"I'm pregnant," Anti-Cosmo said as the quiet suddenly became too deafening for his ears to handle. He gripped the top button of his borrowed shirt in his fist, fighting the urge to hunker down in his seat. "O-or more specifically, my wife was, hence why she didn't come. We were - are - having a drake."

"Getting sloshed is a good way to prepare for that kind of emotional stress," Dame Artemis agreed with a sagely nod.

Jorgen put both fists on the glass table with a thunk and stood up. "Little girl, you do not tell us what to do in our free time. We have caused no ruckus and so as the boss of the establishment, you should not be over here. We did not invite you."

With a squeak, Dame Artemis vanished below the booth wall. She reappeared on their side of it and quietly slunk onto the end of the bench beside Anti-Sanderson. "Hey, I'm not upset. Sorry, sir. I just thought I'd ask and find out if we could hang. Maybe get a little wasted on the side. I pole dance here on Wednesdays, you know." When no one smiled, she dropped her gaze to her clasped hands and made an uncertain clucking noise in the back of her throat. "Okay. Um. Me being the cool fun queen aside, I really do wanna talk to you guys."

"What about?" H.P. asked, placing his hand to his right hip.

Dame Artemis followed his movement with her eyes. "Why wouldn't they have taken your-? Ah. The key to your cloudcar. Smaaart. But don't bother threatening me, sir. The rent-a-locker thing up front is just a way to make some easy lagelyn off the idiots who are too bright to want to risk a classic case of  _Mintwave v. Wandflick_  but too dumb to smuggle their stars in. With the sole exception of my master wand, magic doesn't even work within these walls."

Anti-Cosmo glanced to his left at Anti-Sanderson. From the way the anti-pixie mouthed,  _She's bluffing,_  Anti-Cosmo could tell they were both thinking of Norm.

"No magic that draws power from the Big Wand's energy field, sir," Dame Artemis corrected impatiently, never taking her eyes from H.P.'s face. "That excludes, to name a few non-comprehensive examples, genies, nature spirit zodiacs, the Principle of Observation, the Anti-Fairy mind-meld, my scrying thing, the honey-lock, the core-sync, the influence of yoo-doo dolls, and the sheer power of our Aos Sí ancestors themselves. I'm not  _that_  rich."

Anti-Cosmo's fingertips roamed to the place where a certain blue gem on his cravat normally lay against his neck. "What abou' breathing?" Anti-Sanderson asked. "Are we allowed ta breathe inside the Lounge?"

"Breathing is fine, sir."

"What abou' kiff-tying with a damsel?"

Her lower eyelid twitched. "Kiff-tying with a damsel is fine too, sir, though I recommend you remove yourselves to a private place if you're going to do that. And I have a strict bring-your-own-sterilized-knives policy. In whose smoky company a fellow Unseelie Courter chooses to… regenerate is none of my business. Head Pixie, sir?" Dame Artemis gestured to the table with her hand. "I know I'm being forward, but could I please ask you to place your weapon in the open where I can see it? I'd feel more comfortable talking to you that way."

H.P. lifted his usual eyebrow. "Why? It won't work in here."

"No, sir. If it's connected to the energy field projected by the Big Wand, no it won't. Unless, maybe, you're working on a way to contain the energy of the aforementioned Big Wand as a portable unit and using your own starpiece as a prototype for this advancement in technology? Hypothetically?"

Anti-Cosmo heard the soft click of the Head Pixie's teeth adjusting in his mouth. His clothes rustled around the neck. "Hypothetically."

"Perhaps  _very_  hypothetically, sir?"

H.P. didn't move. Then he did. He slammed his phone on the table and wrenched open the rear panel. Jorgen hissed. Anti-Sanderson cringed in silent sympathy. Anti-Cosmo only blinked.

Dame Artemis leaned forward again, her tongue curled against the inside of her cheek. "Oh… Abracadabrium batteries. Yes sir, those are rare. And regrettably too impractical for a mass-produced power source because of that."

"You've got abra-bats?" Anti-Cosmo whispered.

"It's only a prototype," the Head Pixie muttered back. "A lousy prototype for an idea that worked better on paper than in practice. But we did get the P.A.W.S. out of it, so at least it wasn't a total waste of resources."

"Beg pardon?"

"Previously-Activated Wand Systems. Useful for  _ping_ ing documents straight into the digi-stream. Tell you later."

Dame Artemis clicked the panel back into place and pushed the cell phone in front of the Head Pixie. "I only wanted a look, sir. Keep it. I trust you. Now, I hate to drop anybody's self-esteem - you know I hate doing that - but I didn't float over here just because I like you guys. Oh, vapor no. Actually, I've been here every night for the past few weeks hoping I could catch you because something happened a few yea- er, months ago that really bothers me."

Jorgen pricked his ears. "Bothers you how? Can it be vaporized with my big glowing staff?"

She leaned away. "Ooh, I'm sorry, sir. I was going to tell allll of you about it, but the High Count is the only one here who's ever been nice to me, so I'm gonna put all my eggs in his basket on this one." So saying, she stood and motioned to Anti-Cosmo with a coaxing gold talon. "You got a minute to chat with me in private, High Count, sir?"

Anti-Cosmo brought his eyebrows together. The Refracted were arguably more opposite his people than either of them were opposite their shared Primary counterparts in the Seelie Court. Whereas his race were known to be mischievous (and yes, occasionally, evil), hers treasured peace and piety. The Refracted had withdrawn to the higher planes of existence eons ago to work their farms and fawn over religious beliefs they couldn't prove. Dame Artemis included, only rarely did they stray down here where the atmosphere was thicker and the sky glowed with stars instead of sunlight. Even when the occasional Refract did, it was to speak with people like, well… Jorgen. The Head Pixie. Seelie Courters who practiced Daoism and the like.

But not him. The strange Refracted damsel who ran a sugar-filled nightclub down on Plane 5 and coyly teased anyone, species disregarding, who would give her the time of evening had never once before had anything to say to the strange Anti-Fairy drake who rejected soda and candy bars and the practice of keeping mistresses entirely. This was odd indeed. _I've been here every night for the past few weeks,_ she'd told them _._ Yes, something about the whole situation suggested Dame Artemis hadn't swung by her club just to sneak the sugary treats her people nearly as whole despised.

Well. She'd probably do that while she was in the neighborhood too, actually.

Sure enough, when he muttered an apology to his fellows (and suggested they enjoy themselves without him) and then followed Dame Artemis to another roped-off nook across the balcony, she twisted off the lid to a grape soda bottle. "I get free drinks, sir," she explained as she poured herself a shot. "Chief perks. I'd hate to let 'em go to waste."

"Sunchosen, you naughty damsel," Anti-Cosmo scolded, forcing a playful tone into his voice as he sat. She remained standing. "You, good woman, consuming sugar. For shame."

"L _iii_ sten, I'm ambitious and unrepentant. I've never exactly been like the majority of my people, sir. That's why I'm the one who decided to unite a couple of our more lenient tribes into one and name myself their Chief." She brought the shot glass to her lips and wiggled her eyebrows. "I hang out in the Deep Kingdom because I  _like_  material possessions and having fun. That's what comes of having a counterpart who decided his true calling in life was to become a monk. You know how it goes."

"You've got a grape soda mustache," he told her when she put the glass down.

"Thank you. Now, sir, we should talk about serious business."

Anti-Cosmo fiddled with his wedding band again. The fabric of the nook seat was cracked and stained. Dame Artemis hovered on her toes beside him… blocking his exit route. "Look here, dame. If this is about not being invited to the Fairy World Games, you can speak with Jorgen and I'm sure he'd be happy to let your people participate next year."

Dame Artemis laughed and clicked her shot glass back on the table. Finally, she wiped the stain above her lip with the sun-shaped pendant on her necklace. "I wish I could, sir, I really do, but I wouldn't be able to get a team together. We Refracts are all" - she made jazz hands - "equal and above pride and pettiness and junk. Contests are 'beneath us' and 'introduce discontent among the ranks'."

"Pity. The two Unseelie Court classes head to head against the two Seelie ones. It would have been good fun."

"It would have. But if I can sell my people on the idea, you'll be the first to know. Now, please open up that laptop over there by your elbow, sir. I want to show you something freaky."

Anti-Cosmo's experience with computers had been a long one of headaches and wand blasts. Typically, that was how it went with him and technology. There were other camarilla members who could navigate the Internet and avoid viruses in the process. He was a man of a simpler time. Regardless, he did as Dame Artemis requested. He even managed to boot it up without any assistance. Now, how about that?

"Please sir, don't squeal on me to the other Refracts for having this," Dame Artemis said, leaning over his shoulder to tap out her password. "I had to place a special order with H.P. and have some guys smuggle it up to the Dame Head's mill.  _And_  I had to wrench it out of your counterpart's hands. She and your wife's man are always slipping onto the merchant ships like rats and scampering off with stolen cargo. No offense, sir."

"None taken. But…" He fingered the pink cord that trailed into the wall. "I thought it was honeywheat fields, prairies, and forests for kilometers up there on your Planes. Where do you charge it?"

"Don't. Why did you think I come down here so often? You guys have the outlets. Also, why didn't you follow me back on Krystell, sir? Anti-Sanderson followed me back, and Anti-Pixie Isle doesn't even get digi-stream reception." She clicked her tongue. "I hate pretending I'm happy not having the stuff you guys take for granted. The Deep Kingdom Planes are so much more fun. Ah, here! Yeah, there we go." She tilted the screen in his direction and stood back, hands on her hips. "This is your castle, right?"

Anti-Cosmo stared at the laptop for almost an entire minute in complete silence. Tall cinderstone walls loomed against a sky more maroon than scarlet given the position of Earth's Sun below. Coils of barbed wire slithered among the ashy black clouds. Anti-Elliot lingered in one of the castle's turrets, his wand extended through the window and his eyes utterly focused on the quiet drawbridge below. The image was frozen, and obviously outdated. Today (Yesterday in his time zone) was Saturday. Saturn's day of the week. The two camarilla representatives for Fire on the zodiac were on guard duty tonight- Anti-Scarlett at the gate and Anti-Julian in the tower. With his knuckle, Anti-Cosmo guided the trackpad to the center of the video, where the play button rested, and kept the cursor hovering. "How did you get this feed?"

Dame Artemis crossed her arms. "What? Did you forget which race invented scrying bowls and crystal balls in the first place, sir? High Count, we're the bird people. Seeing stuff from far away is our specialty; I stalk some of the really mint people I follow on Krystell personally. And after you watch this, maybe you'll thank me for it, sir. This  _is_  your castle, right?"

"Yes…"

"Okay. Watch this, sir, and then hug me and kiss me and assure me that I'm just being paranoid again." She pressed a key and the video sprang into action. A gnat flitted across the screen with a soft buzzing of wings. More than a few voices wafted out from the Castle dining room, all of them pestering Anti-Wanda for details about her latest excursion to the Far West Region. He heard his own high voice assuring them that questions could be answered as soon as she settled in. Even watching the video with a hazy recollection of what was coming, Anti-Cosmo found himself chuckling as his sweet wife joked that her wanderlust wouldn't let her settle anywhere as long as she lived, so all except her Anti-Cozzie might be sitting on their questions until the day they went to smoke, and the entire camarilla erupted in laughter. Then their voices died away. Only the scratching of silverware on glass plates permeated the air.

And then the picturesque scene went wrong.

There was no smoke cloud. No flash. No whirlwind. No ripple. No slit in the sky or lightning in the distance. And most concerningly for a being who relied so heavily upon his ears, there was no sound at all. Not a  _poof_  or a  _ping_  or a  _foop_  or a  _gong_  or a  _zing_  or a  _pong_  or a  _pop_. Simply, one second all was still and quiet. His castle rested on its plot of gray cloud, surrounded by a moat of emptiness that dropped directly down to Earth (or at least it would if Jorgen hadn't rerouted it to deposit anyone who fell there directly into a snug prison cell). Now that the Barrier was down, politely bringing up this annoyance to the Council was Anti-Cosmo's next political goal. One he would probably never succeed in, but, well.

The next second, a large white shape blinked into existence on the left-hand side of the screen. It seemed to be about four meters above solid ashes, and it landed with a heavy thump out of sight.

"What?" he muttered, leaning forward now.

"Wait for it."

The screen swiveled to track the movement. Moving, Anti-Cosmo noticed, with a startled bob and twist not unlike the neck of a bird. A bird sitting in a tree, with a stunned white… mass lying at the base of the trunk. "Did you slip one of your scrying owls into Anti-Fairy World to spy on me?" he whispered, and Dame Artemis whispered back, "You're more fun than H.P. because it's harder to hide owls outside skyscraper windows without arousing suspicion, sir, now hush."

"I'm going to catch that owl and stuff it in my storeroom eventually, you know."

"I said hush."

The white shape pulled itself into a sitting position and wrapped its arms around its knees. Crouching that way made it difficult to determine its true size. The owl-cam shifted its talons and slunk closer to the trunk of the tree. Black leaves rustled. It let out a low hoot. At that, the shape looked up. The scrying owl absorbed the details of its face, which was undoubtedly human. But other than that, Anti-Cosmo couldn't make out the foggiest detail past the thick safety goggles perched on his nose. Apart from a purple backpack, the figure was, entirely, bundled in a thick white coat with its fuzzy hood pulled up and over his hair. Being an Anti-Fairy and built to survive the cold climate of Hy-Brasil, he didn't recognize the style immediately. What was it? A parka? A clear tube snaked from the insides of the backpack and ended between his lips, like a straw as thick as Anti-Cosmo's own arm.

Then, before Anti-Cosmo could open his mouth to comment on the curious apparatus, the figure twitched backwards and disappeared as suddenly as he had come. A few quiet seconds passed. The video blinked to an end. The play button reappeared in the center of the screen, with a countdown timer warning it would soon begin again.

"So?" Dame Artemis asked, looking at him.

"… Uh…"

She sat down on the other side of the table. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but that was a human, sir. A human drake, in Anti-Fairy World. The first time I saw this, I thought, "Okay, that's a bit weird, but maybe he fell out of the tree, then stepped backwards and fell down a snake hole. You've got some pretty big orange snakes in your place, right? Right. But then I got to thinking. Wouldn't your gate guard have told you if a human had come in from Fairy World, sir?"

"Immediately," Anti-Cosmo agreed, pressing his claws to his temples. "I… I don't understand. Anti-Elliot not seeing him from the tower I can perhaps forgive. But Anti-Kanin was on gate duty. He would have alerted me at once had someone so strange come by. He… he's my  _best friend._  Has been since we were pups. He'd never keep that sort of secret from me!"

Dame Artemis watched him quietly until he finished. She nudged the soda bottle in his direction, but Anti-Cosmo pushed it back. "I won't lie, High Count. I'm freaking out. You and I both saw how he showed up without either a  _poof_  cloud or a sound. And that drake looked way too old for godparents anyway. Yet if I didn't know better, sir, I'd swear it looked like he teleported. In and out. Whoosh. If humans have found a way to breach the cloudlands without taking the Bridges, that's a problem, sir. For all of us."

The video played the human's strange entrance again. Anti-Cosmo stared at it, not speaking, until it had finished. Then he said, softly, "Let's not tell anyone about this yet, hm? I don't want Jorgen or Hap getting any ideas that this has something to do with my own lack of security."

"I understand." Dame Artemis shut the laptop and kept her hand resting on top of it. "But I think you should know something else, sir."

"Well?"

"I don't want to alarm you, but a few years… months… some time ago, a human did appear on Boudacia and cause a bit of a stir. I heard he - or she - didn't bat an eye at anyone, and they left as quickly as they'd come. I was down here in Serentip one evening just like this one when I heard, and I didn't think much of it. But it's weird, don't you think, sir? First a human appears on Boudacia. Now a human pays an impromptu visit to Anti-Fairy World through non-Fairykind means."

Anti-Cosmo bit his lip to keep from leaping to his feet and screaming at the stars. Humans with teleportation abilities, unrestrained by the universal laws which forced members of the Seelie Court to halt at the Divide gate's port of entry on their way through to Hy-Brasil? His people might very soon be in danger of capture and torture- or at the very least, he had a long eternity ahead of him to spend fishing fallen humans out of some of the more dangerous bits of his home. "Tarrow spare us," he managed. His claws left scours in the wood of the table. "Could the Boudacians have accidentally picked him up and teleported him there in the first place?"

Dame Artemis pulled one foot into her lap. "Boudacians don't possess teleportation technology. I checked with a very reliable source, sir. Their focus is on weaponry and defense. Even their ships are known for power, not speed. Some of the slowest in the cosmos."

"Chief Sunchosen, while I empathize with your concern, if that rumor spread years or months or some time before this incident with my Castle, the odds are high they aren't connected." He said it mostly to convince himself, and Anti-Cosmo had a sneaking suspicion that she could tell he was wracking his brain for alternative solutions.

She upturned her hands, talons glinting in the blue and purple lights. "Let's say it is a godkid. If so, Amity Angel would have records, right?"

"Every godparent fills out a monthly report of all their godchild's wishes. Oh, but they'd never let me in there. You have to complete the proper training." Anti-Cosmo pulled a face. "Certainly I've heard that an anti-fairy or two have claimed jobs there since the Barrier went down, but the Amity Safety and Protective Recall Agencies as a whole are not precisely known for their lenience towards my kind. The Angel division would never let me wander around the human godchild wish archives without a very good explanation. While your video is certainly interesting, unless I could gather hard evidence that the human presence is threatening, I'd more likely than not get  _Anti-Firebox v. Ivywish_  called on me."

"That's too bad. We Refracts don't really know how that godparent stuff works." Her face fell. Then she perked up again. "That damsel who heads Amity Angel now."

"Emery? Her counterpart was on the camarilla while I was growing up. What of her?"

"She's H.P.'s little sister or something, right? She's got the…" Dame Artemis made an up and down motion above her head to indicate the pale yellow honorary Pixie hat that had made Emery's round face, purple sweatshirt, and short black hair speckled with starry flecks of white familiar up and down the cloudlands. "Would the Pixies have access to godchild wish records through her, sir?"

Anti-Cosmo considered this. "Well. I imagine they help with all her paperwork, the way they help with everyone's. They keep copies of every document to ever pass through their hands down in that undercloud library of theirs. The Labyrinth, they call it, and for good reason. I've visited the place only once before and I'd still be wandering there if it weren't for my wand. On that topic, I don't trust the elevator. The cables that  _rrr_ un it are overflowing with magic, and they'd snap if you so much as risked a wand wave."

"There you go. If they've got the wish records, the Pixies could help you find it."

Anti-Cosmo leaned back. "Why me and not you? You are the one who seems to have more information about this human on Boudacia business than I."

Dame Artemis blinked. Then she pressed her lips together. "Well, it was your Castle. And I don't want to be the one to ask him. I swear, every time H.P. looks at me, I can see him undressing me with his eyes or some junk. Now that the Barriers are down, digi-stream searches about High Kingdom real estate are trending and everyone knows he's had his greedy eyes on our open land for ages. Last time he got drunk here, he spent the night trying to bribe me to marry Drake Sanderson, I think. Or I'm being the annoying paranoid one again, but I don't like it either way. Oh vapor, I'm not supposed to be sitting down! I  _always_  forget that!" She sprang up, frantically brushing off her silver skirts,

"I didn't want to bring your attention to it," Anti-Cosmo said, watching her panic with a thin cord of amusement.

Dame Artemis gave up on her robes and blew two bright gold curls out of her eyes. "When there's a risk of me getting cornered into marriage every time our paths cross, I'd feel weird asking him. But you and the Head Pixie are tight, sir. I mean, look. You're even… wearing his shirt?"

"It was- a gift." Anti-Cosmo wrung his hands beneath the table, then rose to his wings. "Thank you for letting me in on this, Chief Sunchosen, but I have got to return to the others or they'll wonder if you've dragged me off someplace to confess my sins. Should I hear a word about rogue godchildren, I'll scry you immediately."

Dame Artemis released the magic she'd clamped in her mouth with a sigh of relief. Her wings drooped. "I wanted to talk to you because Drake Jorgen thinks I'm too young to be taken seriously and Anti-Sanderson's figured out what my owls do and he throws things at them. If he's that upset with them, I don't want to know what he thinks about me. But I like you, High Count. You get things." She held up three talons. "Human. Teleporting. Cloudland security breach. I know there's a lot of other stuff going on here tonight, but don't forget, okay? It might be important."

"I'll bring it up at the next Council meeting."

"Thanks. Enjoy your party. If you get bored, hunt me down and I'll do what I can to keep you entertained. Don't forget, sir, you're the High Count. Until sunrise, your drinks are on me." She drew an ivory wand from her one sleeve and tapped it against her laptop. It, the pink charging cord, her soda bottle, and shot glass all vanished with an audible  _pop_. Anti-Cosmo twitched his nose, but resisted the urge to sneeze as cool, silky Refracted magic washed over his face. With one last tip of her crown, Dame Artemis sauntered away towards the stairs. Every patron gave her a wide berth. The golden brown tail feathers peeking from beneath her robes swished across the floor as she went.

A human. A human in the cloudlands only Rhoswen knew how. What pleasant news to receive while he was still in mourning.

When Anti-Cosmo returned to the roped-off booth where he had left his companions, he first found Anti-Sanderson lying on the ground, wondering aloud over and over again what would happen if a pixie whose saliva cleared the mind came in contact with an anti-pixie whose saliva inhibited it. His final consensus appeared to be that they'd affect each other. Anti-Cosmo studied him with distaste as he floated past, and hoped that although the bouncer had let them through without a second thought, and although Dame Artemis had insisted her wand alone worked inside the Lounge, that one of the others had stripped Anti-Sanderson of his plastic wand anyway. He wasn't in the mood to argue  _Mintwave v. Wandflick_  and  _Anti-Gonzo v. Fairy World_ with any of the Keepers patrolling Serentip's streets tonight.

"Anti-Cosmo," Jorgen greeted as he neared. He had his fist wrapped around an entire barrel of sugary liquid that looked suspiciously like the ones that were supposed to be stuck to the wall by the soda fountain at the downstairs bar. Anti-Cosmo decided not to ask.

"What did Dame Moodkill have to say to you behind our backs?" H.P. asked. His tone was disinterested, his words as calm as ever, but as he refilled his baby bottle with a fresh can of orange soda, his eyes glittered hard and cold.

Anti-Cosmo shook his head. "Oh, nothing at all pleasant. It would only put a damper on our evening, so I'll tell you later. Feel free to head down and enjoy yourselves. After all, you paid for it."

H.P. continued to study him. He'd finished pouring his refill, but he didn't seem to notice he was still holding the empty can above the bottle. "You know I enjoy dancing. But it would be rude to leave you up here. You don't like soda. You only touch one cookie every dozen. You seemed insistent earlier that you have no interest in watching the… entertainers. What exactly do you plan to do, presumably alone, while we 'enjoy ourselves'?"

"First?" Anti-Cosmo picked up his discarded menu and opened it to the first page. "I'm going to treat myself to a breakfast of crepes filled with fresh High Kingdom berries and bananas, and I think I might even sprinkle a bit of powdered sugar on top. Then I shall  _foop_  in a stack of novels I've long been anxious to get to and make the most of my stress-free morning. I've been sleeping at odd hours this last month and I'm feeling rested up, so don't worry I'll fall asleep on you."

Jorgen scoffed. "Anti-Cosmo, we did not pitch in to get a fancy-schmancy all-important VIP table reservation just for you to spend the evening curled up with a little book like a total pansy."

"I'm certain your funds will all recover."

H.P. rolled his eyes.

"We could play strip snapjik," Anti-Sanderson chirped, sitting up.

Lowering his soda barrel, Jorgen nudged the anti-pixie with the toe of his boot. "That is hardly fun when two of you have fur."

This time, Anti-Sanderson sprang right up on the table, his party blower tucked between his fangs. He pointed two thumbs at his chest. "Hi-ho, heeey oh! Everybody listen! We'll be starting us a strip snapjik game in just a couple a' minutes, and the pot is open donation. All onlooker contributions go straight t' helping poor orphaned pups and jobless anti-pixies in Anti-Fairy World."

A few murmurs sprang up on the edges of Anti-Cosmo's hearing. He caught more than one anti-fairy damsel looking his way… along with some damsels who weren't precisely of his Class. "Oh my smoke," he mumbled, pressing his face into his hands. He slid down his seat until he was far more under the glass table than sitting beside it. "The  _u_ niverse will re _fu_ se to let me live this down. I have made poor choices and I regret my friends."

"I will settle this," Jorgen muttered, and grabbed Anti-Sanderson by the scruff of his neck. The two left in the direction of the loo, Anti-Sanderson whining and blowing kisses the whole way. Amused, several onlookers trailed after them.

"Anti-Cosmo," H.P. warned through his next sip of soda, "you need to stop taking everything so seriously."

That, at least, coaxed out a grim smile, although Anti-Cosmo kept his forehead to his palms and didn't straighten up. "Hard to believe I'm actually hearing that from a pixie, old sport."

"I have never in my life denied my love for clubbing. I don't know what gave you the impression that I don't know how to party."

"You are still wearing your, ah… business suit, I notice."

H.P. glanced down at his gray clothes. "As a matter of fact, I'm not. These are my pajamas. The buttons are real, but the tie is just part of the design. It's printed on the fabric, see?" He released his collar and let it flutter back against his skin. Then he shrugged. "Sometimes I wear these to the Council meetings and no one notices."

" _I_  notice," Anti-Cosmo retorted. He finally pushed himself up. "Even Anti-Wanda notices. Right now you're wearing plain cotton, as opposed to wool. The  _rrr_ ustling of the fabric sounds distinctly different, and I feel embarrassed on your behalf every time I hear you float through the door. I've simply never told you before."

"Ah. Congratulations. Now you're in on my secret." He put the baby bottle back to his mouth.

Anti-Cosmo skimmed through the menu, then looked up at the bartender behind the VIP sugar bar. Was he supposed to make some sort of signal? No one had given him one. So fortunately, the bartender came swiftly, a pen and pad at the ready. He ordered, and ten minutes later, he began to eat.

Jorgen and Anti-Sanderson did not come back. Between bites, Anti-Cosmo tapped the end of his fork against the table.

"Stop it," H.P. said suddenly, snapping out his wings. "Stop it, that's annoying. That's the most annoying thing I've ever heard."

"Hm?"

The Head Pixie leaned his arm over the back of the booth, the fabric of his particular space on the bench as gray as his pajamas. He closed his eyes and pushed his hat off with his other hand. Then he rubbed furiously at what little white hair still clung to his liver-spotted scalp. Dandruff flakes and glinting particles of purple dust fell into his lap. "I changed the password on my phone while you were gone," he said as he scratched. "Then I forgot it. Locked myself out. Don't know how we're going to drive back to the Barrier now. Can't get through the Barrier. Probably be stuck here forever. Can't  _ping_  home. Hope I didn't leave Sanderson in charge again… Woke up hungover one time with Gary and Betty hugging me on their couch. Left them sleeping there and grabbed another soda but passed out again before I made it far… Couldn't bring Sanderson tonight; he'd get drunk, he can't resist sugar, has no willpower- Dust, he's weak, I miss him so much, I like him, he's neat…"

"H.P., you're sugarloaded. And going tingle-fritzy too, most probably."

H.P. replaced his hat and rolled his head around to stare at him. "I don't get sugarloaded. Not really, actually. We figured that out a long time ago- my genes don't let me. Same way I can count things. I'm good with patterns. You saw my patterns once. Anti-Fairies taste like copper and salt."

Anti-Cosmo squinted into the pixie's face. "Don't forget, old bean, I watched you behave this same way ninety millennia ago when you were our prisoner of war. Believe me, you're sugarloaded. Your eyes are unfocused and you slurred about a fifth of those words. Perhaps sugar holds less of an effect on your mind than most, but it's certainly affecting your body."

"No, it wasn't the sugar that made me do it. I'm still thinking straight. Almost got my wings notched a year after a party once when I was a juvenile. Don't tell Sanderson. He'd be mad. He's annoying when he's mad. Sanderson should marry Dame Artemis, get the High Kingdom land, the Barriers are down thanks to Turner, he yelled at Jorgen, I saw it, I was there, it was entertaining…" H.P. smacked his lips a few times, then rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses and straightened up. "Ah, now my saliva is kicking in. I'm sorry. What was I saying?"

Anti-Cosmo lay his fork across his now-empty plate. "You were trying to tell me you weren't drunk."

"Oh, blitz no. I'm drunk as a huldu right now. I just can't afford to let anyone know it. Don't mind if I leave you here for a minute while I grab another soda, do you? And maybe one of those cute pink cakes. I want to sugar up my saliva again before I'm too sober to regret my decisions."

"Knock yourself out."

"You sure you ain't coming with? It's fun." He paused. Then, with a slight flush leaking into his cheeks, the pixie corrected himself with a quiet, "Aren't?"

Anti-Cosmo twitched his ears. "H.P., may I remind you that I am in mourning."

He frowned. Adjusting his glasses with two fingers, he said, "That's right. You were wearing the thing. You never said why, though. Correct me if I'm wrong, but for the High Count to go into mourning so publicly that they don one of those cobweb shawls you had on, it would either have to be the night before you declare war, or you just lost one of your immediate family. Your father's been dead since long before I knew you. You hate your mother, so you wouldn't be mourning her. You have a healthy wife, a baby on the way-"

"I HAD a baby on the way!" Anti-Cosmo exploded, slamming both fists against his plate as he shot up. His fork flipped into the air and clattered across the table. "I had a wonderful little son on the way until the time came for me to deliver him from my pouch to Anti-Wanda's,  _and I dropped him!_ Ohh, I dropped him from the highest rung of the array while the entire camarilla watched me and even though Anti-Wanda and I instantly flew down to scoop him up and slip him inside her, he's  _dead_  and it's my fault and mine alone and that's why Anti-Wanda isn't showing any signs of pregnancy yet, because I killed him and he's  _not growing._  Thank you for asking!"

He stood there, leaning all his weight on his arms and heaving. Salty tears blurred his vision. He sniffled, pathetically. Distantly, he realized that Jorgen and Anti-Sanderson had finally come back. They froze just outside his line of sight, but that didn't mean he couldn't hear their noisy vocal signatures registering magically below the music.

"Do you understand anything about Anti-Fairy reproduction?" he continued in a soft way as he watched H.P. and Jorgen exchange a glance. "As Cosmo was giving birth, all the" - he hesitated over the offensive word - "the stinky magic residue left over from creating Fairy-Poof flowed from his mouth and nose a little at a time. When it had finished, it all  _rrr_ ushed back through his nose and along the paths there into his forehead chamber. His core sucked it up. And all that was leftover from Poof flowed from his third of our shared core into mine. I was in the hospital room. I saw it. And I felt it hit me." Anti-Cosmo rubbed his nose, finally embarrassed to be caught crying in public. At least none of the other patrons appeared to notice. Or rather, he hoped they hadn't. "I honey-locked with Anti-Wanda that night."

"You destroyed my cereal box," Jorgen muttered.

"And you're fortunate I wasn't inside your stomach when it kicked in," Anti-Cosmo snapped, "or you'd have died where you sat. The nerve, Jorgen! Raisins?" He shook his head and let his eyes fall back to his claws. "Well. We paired that night. I-it's my job to nurture the child for the first thirteen days of pregnancy-"

Anti-Sanderson made a muffled snorting noise. H.P. leaned behind Anti-Cosmo and smacked him on the back of the head with a hissed, "Be nice."

Right. He was telling this to three drakes who all had longer pregnancy cycles than he did. Even Anti-Sanderson, or at least that was the anticipated belief.

"A-anyway. All went well, until our honey-lock crept back. That… that thing was wriggling inside of me. It wanted out. Anti-Wanda was there. She's supposed to raise it until the next Friday the 13th. She was there as we locked again, and she leaned against me and did everything right, because she always does, it's easy for her, but when I went to press my pouch against hers and deliver his fragile little body, I- I-"

H.P. clasped his hands together, then released them and made a "Poooosh," sound with his mouth.

" _I dropped my bloody baby on his head from half a dozen meters up, H.P._  Is that all you can say? Have you ever been frozen upside-down on a perch, pale and bare and exposed, c _rrr_ aning your neck to stare at that limp blue mass on the floor above your head, knowing that he's dead, that you're too late, that you let him slip away, that you just… just…" With every limb shaking, his hands back on his face, Anti-Cosmo lowered himself into the booth seat again. "Oh, pass the sugar dish, would you, old sport?"

H.P. slid it across the table. He still hadn't drawn his other hand from his right cheek, where one of his fingers was tracing old scars among his wrinkles. "Have I ever been in that situation? No, I have not. More relevantly, your son isn't dead. If Poof's alive, the Anti-Poof won't be going anywhere fast. Technically, he hasn't even been born yet. Anti-Wanda simply hasn't put the smoke in him yet. He doesn't have a soul, and thus he can't die. That's all."

"I despise the name Anti-Poof," Anti-Cosmo mumbled. It felt better to be mad than distraught. He shoved an entire spoonful of sugar in his mouth. It electrified his tongue.

"That's too bad," H.P. said, watching as he went for another scoop. "Anti-Fairies are only allowed to choose the middle name, unless I've been misinformed, so it's not your decision to make."

"Bloody watch me. I'm the High Count."

"It is kinda dopey," Anti-Sanderson admitted. He reached out his hand and eased Anti-Cosmo's spoon away from the sugar dish. "Maybe give yourself a chance to stabilize there before you take any more, triggerclaws."

"To be fair, Ping would be a rather cute name for a pixie, wouldn't it?"

Anti-Cosmo dropped the spoon against his plate. "What does that have to do with anything?"

The Head Pixie arched one eyebrow. "I thought we were talking about my problems now. Pixie 507 will be on the way shortly. He'll be called Finley, but after that, I've about exhausted all my name ideas. What do you think? Should I go with Cuttingham or Kershaw for the next? I've wanted a Kershaw since before Sanderson was born, but you know, I'd look at a face and just sense that it wasn't quite right. One of these days, I'll get that pixie and I'll know it."

"Oh, a pox on your ridiculous surname naming convention," Anti-Cosmo cried again, slapping his palm on the table once more. His claws scratched over glass. "You have five hundred years to think about each one. What about my anti-baby?"

"What about your anti-baby?" Jorgen asked.

" _I broke him!"_

A sigh. H.P. curled two fingers over his mouth, but left his index finger there beside his ear. "I honestly don't understand what you're getting so worked up about. You could flatten this kid with a skyscraper and it's doubtful he would suffer a scratch. Your people regenerate."

The boiling tears came back in a flood. Every time they fell, the acid in them left sizzling holes in the borrowed shirt. Anti-Cosmo turned his attention away from Jorgen and Anti-Sanderson. "H.P., I need advice. You've raised, what, five hundred and six-"

"Five hundred and three."

"-pixies over the millennia. Surely you can loan me some advice to raising mine? I don't know the first thing about raising a child. I've… never held a pup in my life."

The Head Pixie scratched his chin. "Aren't you Mr. Genie Conservation Program?"

"That hardly counts." Anti-Cosmo groped again for the sugar dish. Anti-Sanderson took it off the table and placed it on his knee. "Certainly the first nine months are anxiety-ridden torture when iron deficiency or the slightest drip of water could kill them off while your back is turned, but once they're weaned and shifted to their own bottle, raising genies is easy. You keep their lamps plenty warm and bright so they don't fall into hibernation and they don't ask for much other than that."

"Well. Raising a pup will be like that. And it also won't be. You'll prepare for everything and realize too late that you've done too little. Nuada help anyone who chooses to have kids. It's a never-ending nightmare and the rewards are few and far between."

Jorgen got up and left without a word.

"Oh." Anti-Cosmo frowned. "Surely there's some aspect of parenthood you find enjoyable?"

H.P. glanced up at the ceiling, drumming his fingers. "It's familiar now," he said at last. "It's painful. It's exhausting. It's stressful. It's undignified. It's draining. It's frustrating. It's gross. I hate every single second of it with a burning passion the way I'd never hated anything before. But it's familiar to me. And I wouldn't give it up for the universe. I love it."

The anti-fairy scrunched his brows. "I don't understand."

"Trust me, you will."

Anti-Sanderson pointed a finger gun in the pixie's direction. "By this point I've raised almost all five hundred a' my brothe's. Trust him, you will."

"But what if I  _don't?_ " Anti-Cosmo grasped his hair in both fists, his wings flexing and tightening between his back and the dark blue padding of his seat. "This whole pregnancy, every parent on the camarilla and every member of mine and Anti-Wanda's extended families and every stranger in the courtyard last New Year's have told me that. 'You'll get it. It will be hard, but you'll love it just the same. Don't overthink it. It comes naturally.' But H.P., I'm not  _like_  you! You're a Soil Year, stubborn and persistent. You're calm. You're patient. This sort of thing is easy for you, just like everything I've  _ever seen you do_  is easy for you."

H.P. said nothing. Neither did Anti-Sanderson, though he did slip the sugar spoon inside his mouth.

"Oh, don't give me the silent treatment like that. You know it's true. You figure things out, H.P. You don't get stressed. Everything that's happened to me today, or happened to me for the past two months, has brought my splintering nerves to the last frayed knot of my rope. Genies- Humans- Boudacians- I can't handle one more thing going wrong right now. You're the man who defied all the odds and has raised more children than anyone in the cloudlands and perhaps the entire  _u_ niverse before. More than Ky Braddocki. More than Ilisa Maddington. And if my son isn't dead, that only makes things worse. I can't manage an entire race, fight for our rights, and raise a prince at the same time. You're a brilliant parent who can split his attention like that, but I'm  _not!"_

Anti-Cosmo, shuddering, raised his head. His claws loosened from his hair.

"H.P., every time we meet, you outsmart me. You're always one step ahead, and no matter how fast I run or how hard I think, I can't keep up. You move too fast, and nothing ever slows you down. I… I couldn't even use my wand properly until you took me under your wing and showed me how. When I was an  _adult_. I'm high-strung and my actions tonight are proof of it. I always explode when I'm upset- you know I do. I've already screwed up. I have no business raising a child."

"You did screw up pretty bad dropping him," Anti-Sanderson said thoughtfully, "so I guess the worst is already ove'."

"You outsmart me sometimes," H.P. murmured. He straightened Anti-Cosmo's fork beside the empty can of orange soda. "You're the one who can think on his feet. You're the one who can recognize when he's bitten off more than he can chew. And the one who can take a step back and recalculate things. I'm not brave. I just get irritated. I'm not clever. I'm just rash. I keep drilling dead end tunnels even when it would make more sense to swallow my pride and go back to find an easier way. And sometimes I look at you… and I get mad. Really. Really mad." He looked up. "Why does it come so easily to you?"

Anti-Cosmo frowned. "Pardon?"

"Giving up." H.P. tightened his fist around the fork. "What I see as a waste of resources, you view as a learning experience. Ever since I met you - really met you - I've noticed it. You don't fight when you know you can't win. You purposely lose battles to win a war. You're fast and excellent at detecting weak points and how to exploit them. You play mental games of chess, predicting moves I can't see. You sacrifice pawns to topple kings. That's something I'll never understand, and it's why you're so  _frustrating_  to have as an enemy. A.C., you  _get_  people." The pixie even put emphasis on the words. "You have an entire camarilla at your back. You're the one who's been married for fifty thousand years. You've bred and raised genies since you were a juvenile. You have a loving wife ready to give your son all that she can. Between the two of you, and the camarilla on top of that - and for crying out loud,  _Sunnie_  - you couldn't possibly screw up. And you're over here asking me about raising kids. Ha. Mr. Genie Conservation Program, I'm a sire. But I'm no father. You've outsmarted me there."

"I'm just flat-out dumb," Anti-Sanderson added helpfully.

Anti-Cosmo considered the words. "Do you really think he isn't dead?"

"He can't be. Poof is still alive. Just chill and wait patiently."

"But Anti-Wanda isn't showing signs of pregnancy. Her stomach is as flat as a board."

"He's a late bloome'."

"But her belly should have swollen. She should be square. He hasn't grown at all! I feel like I've- I've- I've prepared for everything, only to realize too late that I haven't done enough."

"Wasn't that the very first thing I said?"

"She's taking in so much more magic than she ever did before," Anti-Cosmo fretted, twisting his monocle against his eye. "At this rate, she'll get horrible back-up. Without a pup to p _rrr_ esent it to, she'll swell until she pops. What even happens to an anti-fairy with back-up? Ohhh, if she can't regenerate again, Fairy-Wanda and Drake Wanda will suffer a leak in their shared magic pool. Without Anti-Wanda's core to keep them balanced, Fairy-Wanda will die before long. And then Anti-Wanda will be gone forever. And where will that leave me? Childless? Wifeless? Ohh, everything was going so wonderfully when he was in my pouch, and then I was supposed to give him to Anti-Wanda, but I stupidly-"

H.P. finally had enough. He stood and slapped Anti-Cosmo's wildly-gesturing hand out of the air. Then he grabbed the wrist. Clenching it tight, he pulled Anti-Cosmo towards him. Caught off guard, the anti-fairy swallowed the literal butterflies fluttering up his throat and hovered in silence. H.P. splayed out each of his blue fingers one by one and lay them against his own tall forehead.

Old magic, ancient abilities, stirred within his chest. Anti-Cosmo felt himself slipping off-kilter. Was that a green glow enveloping his hand, or was the light just playing tricks along his shiny black claws? Sacred smoof, the Head Pixie was sapping all his energy, draining him dry, something was very-

… Blackness faded to gray. Oh. The Head Pixie had dragged him into an Anti-Fairy mind-meld. The Refracted had their scrying abilities which allowed them to view the world through the eyes of their feathered patrons. Seelie Courters could rely on the magical residue secreted from their oily skin to bring the Principle of Observation into effect, and help them avoid casual human notice or even at times gather the strength for a single emergency shapeshift without their wands. But Anti-Fairies had the mind-meld.

When Anti-Cosmo lifted his head and looked around, he found himself in a vast storeroom. He stood in an aisle between two bookshelves- two of many, many bookshelves. Cabinets made up their lower halves, like horses made up centaurs. The cabinets had drawers. More shelves, simple shelves, covered the walls. Anti-Cosmo turned several circles. Everywhere he looked, he drank in binders and file folders on those towering shelves, propped up by bookends and little tourist town trinkets. But what was he supposed to do? There was too much to look at! Where should he even start?

When he glanced down, he found one end of a long trail of purple yarn lying at his feet. He picked it up. When he tugged, the yarn resisted. No ball came rolling. Uncertainly, Anti-Cosmo followed the purple string along multiple aisles, wrapping it around his wrist as he went.

He gathered quite the supply that way. He weaved around tables and chairs. Finally, the yarn began to lift from the floor. Anti-Cosmo followed the line all the way to a corkboard in the center of the room. And on that corkboard was a map. An enormous map, delegating exactly what information could be found in all the different areas of the storeroom.

The answer to every question one could ever need to know could be answered by following that flowchart to another flowchart in each area. And perhaps another flowchart after that. All he had to do was think, follow, and approach what he wanted. Everything was organized, and smooth, and peaceful, and good.

"Feeling better?" asked a disconnected voice. Anti-Cosmo turned his head to find a blurry figure standing beside him, squarish hands stuffed inside gray pockets. A floppy gray hat smothered his salt and pepper hair. On its tip dangled a small metal star. The newcomer wasn't nearly as held-together as Anti-Cosmo (in fact, as the latter watched, multiple chunks of the figment's head and arms would dissolve and rematerialize as the Head Pixie's focus wavered). But he was, obviously, the Head Pixie. Or at least a manifestation of how H.P. saw himself that the mind-meld had projected into physical form.

Anti-Cosmo looked down at the yarn he'd wrapped around his wrist. Slowly, he slid it off his hand. Then he held it out for the manifestation of the Head Pixie to take. "Y-yes. Thank you."

As he let go of the yarn, a dot of black appeared at Anti-Cosmo's feet. It grew wider until it had enveloped all that there was to see. First, darkness. Then purple. Then green. Then blinking.

H.P. lowered Anti-Cosmo's hand from his forehead and sat back as the anti-fairy reoriented himself to the physical world. "Dude. Just chill. Most everything ends badly, but not everything ends as badly as it could have. Things will work out. Just look to the future, explore ideas, familiarize yourself with everything new, and classify it to what you already know. Don't do that emotion thing, and you'll pull through."

"'Look to the future'." Anti-Cosmo couldn't help but chuckle as he leaned back against his seat. If nothing else, the effort of the mind-meld had drained his energy. His loud rants were much less fun when he lacked the energy. "We  _rrr_ eally are from opposite cultures, aren't we, old boy? Oh, no. Anti-Fairies are not precisely the innovative type. Our role is to maintain the balance of the  _u_ niverse as it has always been,  _rrr_ esearching the ways of our sweet world and accepting them for what they are. We stick to the past and our traditions and we like it that way."

The Head Pixie shrugged and clinked the lid back on top of the sugar dish. Anti-Sanderson stuck out his tongue and hopped up to seek out a new treat. "Perhaps it's easier for us. Pixies have very few traditions to speak of. I promise, your pup will be fine. Anti-Wanda's simply a bit behind in showing it, but he's in there drinking her magic. Things will work out. I'm sure he won't remember being dropped. It shouldn't cause him that much distress. Now. Are there any other questions I can answer while you have me here?"

Anti-Cosmo groaned. "Ohh, I long to pick your brain for hours, H.P., but I don't have the foggiest idea where to start."

"Well, when you do, you know my scry bowl's serial number. I'd offer you an extra business card in case you lost the last one, but…" H.P. plucked at his collar. "If you make it to five hundred and three offspring, you'll be wearing pajamas when you go out too. My suits have had food and ink spilled on them more times than they haven't. Would you believe it, but every one is in the laundry right now, and Rosencrantz didn't have them clean when I came to pick them up. Hmm. Accept that the unexpected will happen and cut anyone who mocks your struggles from your life immediately: that's rule number one."

His hands were still jittering, but Anti-Cosmo forced himself to chuckle. "I'll remember."

"And Anti-Cosmo?"

"Hm?"

The Head Pixie took the last can of soda from the bucket on the table. He leaned forward and bumped it against Anti-Cosmo's forehead, like a toast. It was cold, and comforting, and familiar on his fur. Then he sat back with a smile.

"For what it's worth, I think you'll make an excellent Daddy."


End file.
